The destruction of the Brooklyn Theatre, on the night of Tuesday,
December the 5th, was the most terrible calamity of its kind that has
occurred in this country. What was first deemed to be an ordinary
fire, naturally involving serious financial loss to the owners, the
lessees and the actors, was really a catastrophe of the most
heartrending character, causing, as it did, the loss of upwards of
three hundred lives. No theatre fire on this continent had so much
horror lent to it. Even the most stony-hearted were touched by the
awfulness of this great calamity.
Three hundred human beings of both sexes and of all ages were thrust
into eternity through an agonizing and painful death. They were thus
doomed at a moment of pleasure and mental excitement over the mimic
troubles of the dramatic personages in a play possessing features that
touched the hearts of those who followed the scenes on the stage. At a
moment when every eye was fixed on the painted scene, and every ear
strained on the utterances of the several characters, the dreadful cry
of "Fire!" was raised, and, in a few moments after, the entire
building was filled with flame and smoke, and hundreds of men, women
and children were suffocated and burned to death, and their charred
and disfigured remains buried beneath the ruins.
Such is the simple and terse record of this most dreadful occurrence,
and these few sentences afford such outline and visible form to the
picture that it scarcely needs the shocking details that necessarily
follow to give it color and ghastliness. That so much horror should
attend the burning of a theatre sent a thrill of pain through every
heart in the land. The full scope of the calamity and the dreadful
scenes attending it are depicted in the accounts that follow.
No more awful moment can be imagined than that when the fire was
discovered. The full moon of the fatal evening had tempted upwards of
twelve hundred people from their homes, and lighted them to the
brilliant entrance of the theatre. The famous play of the "Two
Orphans," with an excellent cast, mainly from the Union Square
Theatre, of New York city, was the attraction, and had renewed its
fascinations over a public long since familiar with its story. The
audience was characteristically a Brooklyn gathering. Many well-known
citizens were there: among them the family of Mr. William C.
Kingsley, the Hon. Henry C. Murphy, Edgar Cullen and ladies, E. B.
Dickinson and ladies, and Henry Beam. The following was the
distribution of characters in the play, and, with the exception of
Miss Morant, Miss Vernon and one or two of the minor characters, all
the members were in the theatre at the outbreak of the fire:
Chevalier De Vaudry Mr. C. R. Thorne.
Count de Linieres, Minister of Police Mr. H. F. Daly.
Picard, Valet to the Chevalier Mr. Claude Burroughs.
Jacques Frochard, an Outlaw Mr. J. B. Studley.
Pierre Frochard, his Brother Mr. H. S. Murdoch.
Marquis de Presles Mr. J. G. Peakes.
Doctor of the Hospitals St. Louis and
Salpetriere Mr. H. B. Phillips.
La Fleur Mr. H. W. Montgomery.
Officer of the Guard Mr. John Mathews.
Martin Mr. L. Thompson.
De Mailly Mr. J. Clements.
D'Estres Mr. George Dalton.
Footman Mr. E. Lamb.
Antoine Mr. R. Struthers.
Louise, { The } Miss Kate Claxton.
Henriette, {Two Orphans.} Miss Maude Harrison.
La Frochard Mrs. Farren.
Countess de Linieres Miss Fanny Morant.
Sister Genevieve Miss Ida Vernon.
Marianna, an Outcast Miss Kate Girard.
Julie Miss Ethel Allen.
Cora Miss L. Cleves.
Sister Therese Mrs. L. E. Seymour.
The play had proceeded to the last scene of the last act. The curtain
had just been rung up, revealing a scene of exciting and pathetic
interest to the audience. It was the interior of the hovel boat-house
on the Seine. The blind _Louise_ (Miss Claxton) lay on a bed of straw;
_Mme. Frochard_ (Mrs. Farren) was scraping a carrot; the cripple was
at his wheel, and _Jacques_ was about to emphasize his brutality with
a threat. As was natural from her reclining position, which enabled
her to see the flies, the first flame caught the eye of Miss Claxton.
Mr. Murdoch (_Pierre_) was delivering his speech when the two heard a
whisper of "Fire" from behind the scenes, and, looking up, saw flames
issuing from the flies. Mr. Murdoch stopped, but Miss Claxton
whispered to him, "Go on, they will put it out, there will be a
panic--go on," and he resumed. So far the audience had not noticed
anything out of the way, and the two played the scene through, Mrs.
Farren (_Frochard_) entering meanwhile. The carpenters were all the
while trying to stop the progress of the flames, unnoticed by the
house, and Miss Claxton delivered her little speech to _Jacques_: "I
forbid you to touch me," which was greeted with applause. Meanwhile
the audience had begun to suspect something, and with Miss Claxton's
words, "I will beg no more," the actors were forced to move from fear
of falling timber, and the audience rose to their feet. Mrs. Farren
and Mr. Murdoch stepped to the footlights and waved to the people to
resume their seats, while Mr. Studley and Miss Claxton went forward to
do likewise. Mr. Studley shouted: "Ladies and gentlemen, there will
be no more of the play, of course; you can all go out if you will only
keep quiet." Miss Claxton, at the other end of the stage, begged the
people to keep cool, adding: "We are between you and the flames."
By this time the fire (which seems to have originated by some of the
"short drops" blowing against the "border lights" in the flies, and so
communicating to the scenery) had made so much headway that the actors
had to look out for themselves. They had held their ground as long as
it was possible, and, seeing from the panic which started immediately
in the gallery and spread all over the upper part of the house, that
the worst had begun, they began their retreat, the ground floor being
already almost cleared. Mr. Thorne had gone. Mr. Burroughs was
up-stairs in his dressing-room, from which he escaped only to meet his
death. Mr. Murdoch was never seen again. Miss Claxton and Miss
Harrison rushed one way; Miss Girard and the minor people another.
The sight of fire seemed to paralyze every one for an instant, and
just as they recovered sufficiently to act, Mr. Studley's sudden
coming to the front of the stage and assuring them that there was no
cause for alarm caused another pause of a second. It was for a second
only. The blazing fragments began falling thick and fast,
contradicting the actor's well-intentioned deception. The audience
arose as by one impulse and made a rush for the doors. The entreaties
of Miss Claxton and Mr. Murdoch were unheeded. The fierce struggle for
life had begun.
The ushers for the most part preserved their presence of mind and
endeavored to enforce order among the rushing crowd, as did also the
police in attendance. Mr. Rochfert, the head usher, broke open a small
door at the farther end of the vestibule and increased the facilities
of exit into the open air, which regularly consisted of two doors five
feet wide, opening upon Washington street. Mr. Rochfert also entered
the auditorium and endeavored to quell the excitement, but without
effect.
A fire alarm had been immediately sent from the First Precinct
Station-House, which is located next the theatre, and a minute or two
after a general alarm and also a call for the reserved force of all
the precincts. But by the time the engines were in position and at
work the fire was beyond control. The occupants of the orchestra
chairs and parquet had had but little difficulty in making good their
escape, but at least two-thirds and perhaps even a larger fraction of
the audience were still in the dress-circle and gallery. The lowest
estimate of the number in the gallery is that five or six hundred
people were in that portion of the house, and from among these were
most of the three hundred deaths. The exit from the first balcony was
down a single flight of stairs in the rear of the vestibule. Down
these stairs the people came in scores, leaping and jumping in wild
confusion. The way out from the upper gallery was down a short flight
of stairs starting from the south wall of the building, thence by a
short turn down a long flight against the same wall to the level of
the balcony, and from this floor down a cased flight into Washington
street. The main floor and first balcony were soon emptied through
their respective exits, but for the five or six hundred panic-stricken
gallery spectators to pass safely through the tortuous passage
described was next to an impossibility. Every indication points to
the belief that, suffocated by the smoke forced down like a wall from
the roof, the mass of those in the upper gallery thronged about the
entrance to the stairs and were either blocked there so as to make
exit impossible, or were unable even to make the attempt to escape,
and sank down, one upon the other, to fall in a mass into the horrible
pit under the vestibule when the supports of the gallery were burned
away. Those near the entrance of the stairs were, probably, the only
ones who were able to escape from this terrible slaughter-pen. There
was comparatively little outcry here, and this again would seem to
indicate that suffocation had intervened to numb the sensibilities of
the hundreds to whom death was to come by fire.
As soon as the flames reached the rear of the theatre, near the
entrances, where the hundreds of people were contending wildly, the
horror of the scene was increased tenfold. Some leaped madly from the
gallery upon the orchestra chairs, and only a few were sufficiently
self-possessed to lower themselves by the railings. One man escaped by
the small window at the head of the gallery stairs, letting himself
down upon the roof of the station-house. Another, who attempted the
same escape, was suffocated or became insensible as he reached the
window, and was seen sitting motionless there until swept away. A few
lowered themselves from the second-story windows on the Flood's alley
side. But the great mass stood helplessly blocked in. The smoke became
unbearable, and the police and firemen who had been able to penetrate
the crowd at all were obliged to retire. They seized as many of the
paralyzed bodies as they could and dragged them into the street,
passing on their way out over piles of insensible men and boys.
Fifteen minutes after the fire broke out the interior of the theatre
was wrapped in flames. Shortly after the roof fell in, and, at 11.45,
a half an hour after the fire started, the broad east wall fell with a
terrible crash. The few who had reached the first flight of stairs
from the street were taken out and carried into the First Precinct
Station-House. The crowd that had escaped from the theatre remained in
the adjacent streets. Men without hats or coats, with clothing torn
and faces bruised; women bonnetless and dishevelled, weeping
convulsively--every face was a picture of woe and fright.
The crowd was quickly and largely augmented by the anxious throng of
sight-seers, and to keep them within the proper limits required the
efforts of nearly the entire reserved police force of the city. The
Police Commissioners and Superintendent Campbell, and Inspector Waddy;
the Chief of the Fire Department, Thomas F. Nevins, and Fire Marshal
Keady, had been telegraphed for and came promptly to the scene of the
conflagration, and did everything in their power to provide for the
sufferers, for many had been brought out bruised and burned. The
firemen had not fairly begun their labors before it became evident
that it was impossible to save the theatre or any part of it; the
entire attention of the force was therefore directed to the
surrounding buildings, which meanwhile were seriously threatened.
Several small buildings on the opposite side of Flood's alley were
partially destroyed, and at one time the First Precinct Station-House
was in imminent danger. The fire was, however, confined to the theatre
by the united exertions of the entire fire department. The interior
decorations of the theatre were of such light and inflammable
material that the fire was quite beyond their control, so far as the
theatre was concerned, and the roof being equally light and
inflammable, it required constant exertion to keep the fire from
spreading.
[Illustration: CLAUDE BURROUGHS. H. S. MURDOCH.]
At about three o'clock in the morning the fire had been nearly
extinguished, and the major part of the throng of sight-seers had gone
to their homes, ignorant of the fatal consequences of the
conflagration.
The flames had subsided sufficiently to permit the firemen to make an
investigation near the main entrance of the theatre. Chief Nevins
passed over the trembling floor of the hallway toward the inner
doorway. Inside the doors the flooring had fallen in, leaving a deep
pit of fire and flame, from which a dense smoke and steam ascended.
Here a sickening spectacle met his horrified gaze. Close up to the
flaming furnace, and clinging to the splintered verge of the
demolished flooring, was the body of a woman. Her hands clasped the
frame-work of the door in a desperate grasp. She had fought hard for
life. Evidently she would have escaped had not the flooring given way
beneath her. All the clothing was burnt off, and the features were so
blackened that she was unrecognizable, and the body was removed to the
Morgue.
At 4 o'clock in the morning the flames were put out, and the heap of
debris was black and cold. From the vestibule platform the firemen saw
a most horrible spectacle. The mound that had at first appeared to be
simply a heap of ashes proved to be almost wholly composed of human
bodies. Heads, arms, legs, shoulders, shoes, and here and there entire
human remains protruded through the surface of the mound. Policemen
and firemen hesitated for a moment before leaping down upon the
sickening heap. An inclined plane of plain deal boards was hastily
constructed to reach from the tender vestibule platform to the pit,
and upon this a ladder was rested. Upon the ladder the men went to and
fro. Upon the plane, coffins were hauled up and down. At first the
firemen lifted the bodies from the debris, after having carefully dug
around them and loosened them, and ten minutes was consumed in
exhuming each body. But as it became apparent that there were scores
and scores of human remains, and that a day, and perhaps a night,
would end before the last corpse was taken out, less tender means were
used in the operation, and the work assumed a more earnest and
energetic character. Instead of five men, ten men set at work among
the ruins, while on the vestibule platform a dozen sturdy firemen
manned the short ropes by which the coffins, laden with human remains,
were drawn up and dragged to the sidewalk. All the bodies were bent
into horrid shapes, assumed in the struggles of death by suffocation
and by burning. Nine out of ten of the corpses had an arm upraised and
bent to shield the face. Something was missing from every one. This
one lacked a head or a foot, this a nose, an ear, or a hand, another
its fingers or the crown of the skull. Very many broken limbs and
protruding bones were found, and there were gashes in the upturned
faces or fractures in the smooth-burned skulls, so that each corpse as
it was dragged into the light was a new revelation of ghastliness. A
few lusty pulls disengaged each body. Two or three men seized its
stiffened limbs and pressed them into a coffin, a pair of
sharp-pointed tongs clutched the coffin, and the firemen overhead
dragged it even with the street, where a cloth was thrown over the
coffin, and it was dragged to the dead-wagons, which kept coming and
going all day long.
Opera glasses, chains, studs, purses, and even watches were found
under and on the bodies, and were thrown to one side upon a spread-out
newspaper. Opposite the main entrance at the rear of the theatre other
firemen and police officers delved in the ashes and brought forth
corpse after corpse to be boxed and carried away to the Morgue, with
the same rapidity as at the other door. At four o'clock, when a
hundred and forty-seven bodies had been exhumed on the Washington
street side, fifty-three had been carried from the alley-way in the
rear. Moving among the firemen, either as spectators or supervisors of
the ghastly work, were Chief Engineer Nevins, Police Commissioner
Hurd, Fire Commissioner McLaughlin, Assistant Engineer Farley, and
ex-Police Superintendent Folk.
Surrounding the ruins, in Washington, Johnson and Adams streets, were
throngs of people who stood close together on the sidewalks and left
only room enough for one vehicle at a time to traverse the roadways.
The dead-wagons continually passing and repassing, kept this passage
way clear, and were themselves the objects of the most interest.
During the entire day there were continual quarrels between the police
officers and the over-curious people. Pickpockets--nearly all
boys--were numerous, and were brought into the First Precinct station
two at a time. In the station were coats, and hats, canes, shawls,
bundles, valises filled with costumes, and numerous other articles
taken from the ruins of the theatre.
When the first wagon, laden with the dead from the fire, halted in
front of the Morgue, the gathering pressed forward and crushed its way
between the wagon and the doorway. The police officers appealed to the
people to be calm, and at length the bodies were taken into the
building.
Daylight had not set in when the arrival of the dead bodies was
announced. It was thought at first that the first was the remains of a
young woman, but a vest displaying a watch and chain was revealed.
About nine o'clock the second body, that of a young man whose hands
were clasped, and who wore a plain silver ring and a gutta percha
ring, was received. Nicholas Kieley's remains were next, and the Rev.
Father Kieley, who wept as though his heart was broken, recognized his
brother.
Upon the body of the fourth corpse was a gold open-faced watch, to
which was attached a thin gold chain. On the back of the watch was the
words, "A mother's gift." The fifth body was that of a stalwart man,
whose hands were fixed over his face. Then there was a negro whose
features were beyond recognition. Following was a body whose head had
been nearly consumed, and next one whose arms had been burned away. On
this man was a bright gold collar button. Then there were the remains
of a young woman. The limbs were drawn up, the body was twisted, and
the features could not be recognized.
The remains of a boy about fourteen years of age were next carried in.
A man with a checked shirt was put at his side. The bodies of three
young boys and three girls were next received. On one of the bodies
was a hunting-case silver watch, 76,744, with a gold chain and a
piece of the Hell Gate telegraphic wire as a charm. The timepiece was
in good order and marked the correct time.
Before 3 o'clock seventy-eight bodies were strewn about in the Morgue,
and a long line of men and women were constantly passing in and out of
the building. Nearly every person had permits from the Coroner's
office, and the women visitors were in the majority.
A most shameful and vulgar feature of the inroad upon the Morgue was
the vast number of women who, through mere curiosity, insisted upon
entering the building. Women who were naturally nervous and hysterical
forced their way in and risked good clothing and head dress in their
wild attempts to hover over the bodies. They began to sob and
gesticulate long before they reached the hallway in which twenty-three
blackened corpses were in line on the marble floor.
When the women reached this scene they shrieked as though bereft of
all their kindred, but the majority of them were forced to admit that
they knew no one among the dead. Occasionally some agonized mother or
wife recognized the charred remains of a loved one, and the woman wept
as only a woman can weep.
Keeper McGuire, who has witnessed much sorrow in his place, and who is
supposed to have a heart of adamant, wiped tears from his eyes, and
then tried to excuse himself by saying: "This is too much. I am almost
unnerved."
Occasionally some plain, methodical person entered, and, through close
searching, discovered one who was known to him. In a business-like way
the discoverer pinned a card or a slip of paper, bearing the man's
name, to what remained of the clothing. Young and giddy girls, who
should have been chastised for their impudence, flaunted themselves in
the presence of distressed visitors, and seemed to enjoy their trip
through the Morgue.
On each side of the building is a yard, and there are many windows.
Small boys and stalwart men peered through these windows and indulged
in expressions that were unseemly. This outside rabble became so
unruly that an additional force of police was called upon to prevent a
crush into the building.
None of the bodies were put on the slabs. All were on the flooring.
The faces were so blackened by the fire that they could not be
recognized, and it was only through clothing or jewelry that any were
identified. The undertakers of Brooklyn combined together and
volunteered their services in behalf of the sorrow-stricken families.
They were of very great assistance to the police in preventing
professional mourners from robbing the dead. One woman recognized her
brother when she discovered a stud in his shirt bosom. Another woman,
with a small piece of cloth and a piece of shirt bosom, identified her
husband, and saying, "He has $100 in his pockets," put her hand in his
vest pocket and took therefrom that amount.
The arms of nearly all the dead were fixed as though shielding their
faces, and one woman had drawn her clothing over her face and clinched
her hands above her forehead. Two young men were grappled together as
though they had had a personal encounter in an attempt to escape from
the theatre. Others lay on their sides in the manner of persons who
thus slumber. Their watch chains and other jewelry were beautifully
bright, and the clothing of all was blackened through the fire.
In only about one-third of the cases were the limbs exposed through
the torn and burned clothing. Uplifted hands, whose fingers were
shining bones, bore golden rings, and shoeless feet glistened in their
whiteness. The hair and whiskers were gone, and faces were terribly
scarred. A few of the bodies were burned to a crisp, and these were
put into rough pine boxes, and all hope for their identification was
given up.
Until late in the afternoon, men, women, and children flocked to the
Washington street station to tell of fathers, husbands, brothers, and
children who had not returned to their homes since the evening
previous. Hour by hour the list of missing persons increased in
numbers until it comprised nearly 200 names. All who made inquiry for
friends or relatives were necessarily disappointed, for the blackened,
charred bodies were few of them in a condition to be identified.
Strong men, who had kept up both heart and hope, broke down and sobbed
like women when they learned their own flesh and blood might never be
discovered from out of the scores of shapeless trunks that were being
exhumed from the ruins. Women came in sobbing and went away convulsed
with grief. The policemen themselves often surrendered their forced
self-possession and sobbed aloud.
In the evening the work was continued by the aid of calcium lights. It
was thought best to discontinue the removal of the bodies from the
rear through Theatre alley to Myrtle avenue. Sixty-seven in all had
been taken out that way. The main entrance, with the ghastly burdens
still regularly coming out of it, was thrown into bold relief. The
burner and lantern had been knocked off the street lamp over the way,
and a great flame of gas blazed and flared into the air, lighting up
the scorched and splintered doorway and the upturned faces of the
throng. A calcium light on the sidewalk near the door illumined the
corridor to the point where the floor had broken, and there another
was fixed whose rays shone directly into the deep pit in which the
earlier search had discovered the horrible mass of charred human
bodies.
This pit was the cellar of the main corridor, and its ruins were
separated from the debris in the auditorium by the strong foundation
wall that had borne the gallery columns. It was not until nine o'clock
that this cellar, about twelve feet wide, and running through to the
foundation wall on the alley side, was cleared. Over one hundred and
fifty bodies had been removed from it.
Toward the rear fewer were found, and those were evidently not from
the gallery, as fragments of kid gloves could be seen on the fingers
of the blackened hands, some of which still clutched opera-glasses.
These bodies were more thoroughly calcined than those first found, and
not unfrequently the firemen were able to put two or three into one
box.
After dark the orders against admitting outsiders to the ruins were
more strictly enforced. Among those admitted was the foreman of the
Grand Jury, W. W. Shumway. A calcium light from the alley wall shone
over the ruins of the auditorium, and here the firemen began work
shortly after nine o'clock. In addition to the lime light, oil lamps
with reflectors and lanterns were used.
In this fitful glare the firemen, their faces pallid from fatigue and
hunger, toiled on without a word. The first body found in the
auditorium was on the Theatre alley side. Its position indicates that
the victim had reached a window when he was struck down.
Some friends of Mr. Murdoch were very anxious that an early effort
should be made to recover his body. His mother was expected to arrive
in the city during the evening, he having sent for her a few days
before. About nine o'clock a stream of water was put upon the ruins in
the northeast corner to cool the immense pile of bricks under which
the body was thought to lie.
The firemen were greatly impeded by the clouds of steam. They made
their way from the southern end toward the stage. The broken wall lay
in great lumps of brick and mortar. About halfway toward the stage
shapeless human flesh was found crushed between two huge masses which
had protected it from the flames that had consumed all the rest of the
body. It was long before the bricks could be sufficiently cooled to
admit the removal of this fragment. It was feared all the bodies in
this part of the ruins had been similarly or more thoroughly consumed,
owing to the intense heat from the inflammable stage fixtures.
The interior of the Adams Street Market presented at night a weirdly
horrible sight. Disuse had made the place grimy. The gas fixtures had
been removed, and candle light had to be used. The bodies were in rows
that reached the entire length of the long apartment. On the breast of
each was a lighted candle held in a small block of wood. Candles were
also stuck on the hooks that had once been used to hang meat on, and
lanterns helped to illuminate the spacious place; but the combined
light was not sufficient to rid the corners of dark shadows. The
bodies were in strained shapes, as though death had stopped them in a
writhing struggle. Their arms were raised to their faces in most
instances, the gesture suggesting suffocation or warding off heat. The
charring made them appalling to look at. At an old counter officers
added to lists the names of the few who were from time to time
identified.
Articles taken from the bodies were in a basket, enveloped and
numbered, and corresponding numbers were written on slips of paper and
pinned to the rags that still clung to the corpses. Men and women
passed from body to body, seeking friends or relatives, examining the
bits of clothing, holding the candles close to the blackened faces,
and looking for scars or other marks that might make recognition
possible. They were wonderfully composed in manner, the only outbreaks
of feeling being when a search was successful, and that was very rare.
They were in the main of the poor class, such as occupy the galleries
of theatres. They were persistent in their sad task, going along the
rows of ill-shapen remains without missing a thing that promised
identification. In several instances importunate appeals were made for
permission to remove recognized remains, but the coroners decided not
to grant that privilege until the next day.
On the next morning (December 7th) the confusion was less at the
scene of the awful catastrophe, but the solemn gloom was deeper than
before, the excitement was nearly as great, and the under-currents of
sympathy more intense. There was a gloom in Brooklyn which could be
felt even in the streets. There was but one topic of conversation.
Men, women, and children thought and talked of little else than the
Brooklyn Theatre and the burned dead beneath its ruins. On the
sidewalks, in the street-cars, on the ferry-boats, there was one and
the same subject of interest. In the neighborhood of the theatre
itself the excitement was at its height. But there was little to be
seen that could either stimulate or gratify curiosity. Two or three
undertakers' wagons with the ugly coffins from the dead-house, were in
attendance, but the uninterrupted procession of corpses, which was so
horrible a feature of the scene on Wednesday, ended late at night, and
on this morning there was nothing to see save the smouldering ruins of
the theatre. There was only the great void where the theatre had
stood, a mere rim of crumbling walls, scarcely breast high, enclosing
immense heaps of brick and rubbish, from which columns of steam arose
in the air.
A surging mass of people occupied the sidewalk in front of the
dead-house, and stretched into the middle of the street, and men and
boys clambered upon fences and wagons in the neighborhood, and gazed
intently at the blank walls of the building. Policemen guarded the
main entrance and the iron gateway before it. No permits for admission
were demanded of those persons who could satisfy the officers that
they had lost friends or relatives by the fire. They were allowed to
enter from time to time, passing in the front door and through the
room on the right-hand, which contained about thirty bodies, lying on
the floor, none of them identified; so, through a smaller room at the
further end of the building, back to the left-hand room, in which some
of the corpses were lying upon marble slabs and tables in the centre.
Upon such bits of clothing as remained upon the bodies, numbers,
written hastily with lead-pencils on bits of paper, had been pinned;
and where a body had been recognized, the name and address were added
to the number. Then, upon receipt of the coroner's permission, the
corpse was placed in a plain deal coffin and sent to the address given
by the persons who had claimed it.
On Friday morning (December 8th) the work of removing and examining
the ruins was suspended, it being deemed unsafe to proceed any further
while the walls remained in such an unsafe position. The dangerous
parts of the walls were, however, braced, and the firemen resumed
their labors in the afternoon.
During Friday night and early Saturday morning a large number of small
pieces of bodies, and several heads, were discovered, and the trunk of
a body which was identified as that of Mr. Murdoch. The remains were
taken in charge by an undertaker.
[Illustration: Identifying the Bodies in the Morgue.
Identifizirung der Leichen in der Morgue.]
Many of the bodies were so mangled and charred that it was impossible
to identify them, and it was determined by the Board of Aldermen to
bury these at the public expense. The scenes at the Morgue and the old
market on Saturday morning were, if possible, more heartrending and
horrible than anything that had occurred in those places since the
burning of the theatre. The undertakers' wagons rattled up to the door
of the old market by dozens, and the coffins of stained and
polished wood, studded with silver nails, were ranged in rows on the
market floor, beside the black, gnarled things that had been human
bodies. Outside a motley crowd of men, women, and boys pressed close
to the doors and tried to get past the police lines in order to
witness the work of putting the stiffened and distorted bodies into
the narrow coffins. Wandering among the ghastly rows was the usual
throng of sight-seers and mourners searching for friends.
Soon after one o'clock the last coffin was taken from the old market,
and the driver who carried it hurried away after the others. The crowd
around the door took a last glance at the blackened floors inside, as
though the horrible place had fascinated them, and then chased the
wagons and carriages that were going to join the procession.
_The Funeral._
At a quarter before two o'clock the gleam of bayonets appeared in
Schermerhorn street, and the winds bore fitfully the strains of a
dirge played by a military band. The head of the procession was
nearing the point of establishment of the right of the line. At
Flatbush avenue it halted for ten minutes only, while the disposition
of the various parts of the procession was perfected. The Twenty-third
Regiment, that had marched up in hollow square formation, opened and
rested at an "order arms," while the Forty-seventh Regiment passed
through and took the right of the line, headed by its splendid band.
Then the hearses and undertakers' wagons were broken from single to
double column, and the Twenty-third Regiment was placed as a guard of
honor, surrounding this portion of the mournful cortege. The other
necessary dispositions were quietly effected, and then the march was
resumed, with the procession in the following order:
Squad of Mounted Police--Sergeant Johnson.
Alderman Fisher and Supervisor Quimby of Committees--in carriage.
Forty-seventh Regiment Band.
Forty-seventh Regiment.
Detachment Fourteenth Regiment, without arms.
Gatling Battery, without piece.
Conterno's Band.
Twenty-third Regiment as Guard of Honor, leading and flanking first
hearses.
Hearses--Seventeen.
Forty-five Undertakers' Wagons, with from one to four coffins each.
Carriages with Relatives and Friends.
Carriages with Ministers and Officials.
Thirteenth Regiment and Drum Corps.
Near Bergen street the dirge which the band had been playing up to
that point ceased, and the roll of twenty-four muffled tenor drums
marked the time for the steps of the military. Solemnly impressive as
had been the music of the band it seemed infinitely less effective
than the roll of the drums. The former had the color of melody, even
though full of sadness, but the latter impressed itself on the heart
as a monotone of sobs. The air grew heavier with the weight of those
measured pulsations of half-voiced grief. Along both sidewalks moved
steadily, keeping step with the procession, a silent multitude. There
was no hurrying, no conversation to beguile the weary way; only a
sullen resistance to the frenzy of the gale.
The drums ceased, and from the military band wailed forth another
dirge more weirdly sad than that first played. A trembling, thrilling
cry, as of a stricken soul, voiced by a single cornet, awoke, a
harmonic wail, in hearing which, one could not repress a shudder.
Again the music ceased, and the terrible roll of the muffled drums
began, mingled with the shriekings of the storm.
The march was a terrible one, for its oppressive gloom, the deadly
cold, the grief on every hand; but that portion from Sixth avenue to
the gate of Greenwood Cemetery was in all respects the worst. All that
way the roll of the muffled drums continued, and across the wide
vacant spaces toward the bay the icy blast seemed the breath of death
itself.
Battle Hill, where the arrangements for the interment of the bodies in
one common grave had already been made, is the highest point of ground
in the cemetery, and is situated but a short distance from the gate by
which the procession entered. Here a circular trench had been cut,
seven feet deep and thirteen feet wide, nearly surrounding a round
sodded space ten feet in diameter, upon which the projected monument
is to stand.
It soon became evident that human endurance would be insufficient to
bear any protraction of the obsequies. With wonderful fortitude, not
less than 2,000 persons maintained their places about the enormous
grave, held as if by a hideous fascination. But all were suffering
intensely from cold, and it was determined by those in charge to make
the services as brief as possible.
The Rev. John Parker read the Protestant Episcopal burial service. The
Rev. Dr. Putnam, instead of the extended funeral oration which he had
prepared for the occasion, announced that the extreme cold would
preclude the possibility of its delivery, and merely said a few brief
words on the uncertainty of life and the blessed hopes of immortality.
Then the benediction was pronounced by the Rev. Mr. Odell, and the
ceremony concluded with the singing by the Germania choir of Kuhlau's
beautiful choral, "Above all summits there is repose."
Besides the public funeral, many private ones, of persons who had been
identified by friends, took place on Saturday, Sunday and Monday.
The bodies of the actors Murdoch and Burroughs were taken to Irving
Hall at 1 o'clock on Saturday, and remained in state until the funeral
on Sunday.
Great festoons of crape hung in long curves from a common centre in
the middle of the room reaching to the galleries, that were draped in
funeral cloth. Each end of the hall bore its burden of black. Two
circles of gas in the ceiling cast a melancholy radiance. The bodies
were encased in two rosewood coffins mounted with silver, which were
placed in the centre of the room. The coffins severally bore the
inscriptions:
CLAUDE DE BLENAU BURROUGHS,
Born Aug. 12, 1848; died Dec. 5, 1876.
HENRY S. MURDOCH,
Died Dec. 5, 1876, aged 31.
Crosses and wreaths, the gifts of friends, covered the lid of each.
At their head was placed a stand containing a large scroll of white
flowers with the word "Arcadian" in violet, the tribute of the members
of the former club of that name. There was also a rich offering from
the Order of Elks, with the mystic initials of the order predominant.
As soon as the bodies were placed in position friends began to pass by
the coffins. They continued to do so in the afternoon and evening.
During the night the bodies were watched by a committee, the members
of which relieved each other at intervals.
The funeral services were held in the Church of the Transfiguration,
better known as "The Little Church Around the Corner." The services
were very impressive, and the attendance was very large. Dr. Houghton
conducted. The remains of Mr. Burroughs were placed in the receiving
vault of the Second Street Cemetery, and those of Mr. Murdoch were
taken to Philadelphia, and buried on Monday in Woodland Cemetery, the
funeral services being conducted in St. Peter's P. E. Church.
_Mr. Murdoch's Career on the Stage._
Mr. Henry S. Murdoch, one of the victims of the terrible calamity, was
engaged in the cast of the "Two Orphans" as _Pierre_, the cripple, and
was the sole support of a widowed mother and two sisters, who reside
in Philadelphia. The latter were expected in Brooklyn next week to
visit their brother during the Christmas holidays. Mr. Murdoch was
born in Boston, August 5, 1845, and was consequently in the
thirty-second year of his age. He received his education in
Philadelphia, and made his debut at the Arch Street Theatre, in that
city, in the winter of 1864. During the season of 1865 he fulfilled an
engagement at the Boston Museum, and from there he went to Cincinnati,
where he performed at Pike's Opera-house until its destruction by fire
on March 22, 1866. In this case he narrowly escaped with his life, and
lost his entire wardrobe in the fire. He next went to San Francisco,
where he played with John McCullough at the California Theatre. He
remained there two years--1867-8. He then performed short engagements
in Washington, Baltimore, St. Louis and Pittsburgh. In 1872-3 he
played at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, under the management
of Mrs. John Drew, taking the parts of "fop" and "walking gentleman,"
and upon one or two occasions played leading characters. The season of
1873-4 he spent in Chicago, and acted at Hooley's Theatre, under the
management of Mr. Fred Williams, of Boston. He resigned his position
before the close of the season to support Miss Clara Morris at the
Academy of Music in the same city, then under the management of Mr.
C. R. Gardner, who is now the manager of the Arch Street Theatre,
Philadelphia, where Mr. Murdoch made his debut. During his engagement
with Miss Morris he made a decided hit as _Armande_, in the play of
"Camille." At the conclusion of his engagement in Chicago he returned
to Boston, where he remained one season, and commenced his engagement
with Messrs. Shook & Palmer last spring, when he played the part of
_Sandy Morton_, in the play of "Two Men of Sandy Bar," at the Union
Square Theatre, New York. From there he went to the Brooklyn Theatre
on October 9 last. Mr. Murdoch was a nephew of Mr. James E. Murdoch,
the eminent tragedian, and a brother of Frank Murdoch, the author of
"Davy Crockett." He has a brother in New Orleans also an actor, whose
stage name is William Wallace, and who lately made his debut in that
city. Mr. Murdoch was an accomplished and educated gentleman, and a
rising actor. During his engagement in Boston he played such
characters as _Charles Middlewick_, in the play of "Our Boys," and
_Harry Spreadbrow_, in "Sweethearts." He gave much satisfaction in
Brooklyn in his interpretation of Eustace, in "Conscience," _Charles
Surface_, in "School for Scandal," and was giving an exceptionally
good rendition of _Pierre_, the cripple, in the "Two Orphans," at the
time of the fire. He was a good vocalist and amateur artist. He had
been suffering from sciatica for some time, and the malady had given
him considerable pain during the six weeks previous to his tragic
death, causing him to limp painfully at times. He occupied apartments
at No. 53 Concord street, where his uncle, Mr. Henry Murdoch, resides.
_Claude Burroughs._
Claude Burroughs first made his appearance on the stage at the Winter
Garden, New York, in 1865, playing in "Hamlet" with Edwin Booth. At
the conclusion of his engagement with Mr. Stuart, who was then
managing the Winter Garden, he went to Brooklyn, where he played light
comedy parts in the Park Theatre, then under Mrs. Conway's management.
Upon the opening of the Union Square Theatre by Messrs. Shook & Palmer
Mr. Burroughs was engaged to play light parts. His first appearance at
that theatre was as a _reporter_ in "Agnes," the first piece produced
in the house, and he has been in the cast of nearly every play since
produced there. Upon a few occasions when not playing in New York he
has accepted engagements in Brooklyn. He was the fop in "Atherley
Court," the fop in "Jane Eyre," _Maxime_ in "Ferreol," and a very
clever representative of _Talbot Champneys_ in "Our Boys." At the time
of his death he was playing _Picard_, the valet in the "Two Orphans."
Since the opening of the St. Stephen's Hotel, in Eleventh street, in
October, Mr. Burroughs has lived there. He had a delightful summer
residence at Larchmont, on the New Haven Road, where he was wont to
entertain his numerous friends. He was about twenty-six years of age
and unmarried.
_Sketches of other Victims._
Stuart Campbell Hand, a young reporter on the staff of the _Commercial
Advertiser_ of New York, is among the victims of the calamity. He is
known to have visited the theatre on the night of the fire, and has
not been seen since. He was only eighteen years old.
William L. Donnelly, another young reporter, left his home on the
evening of the fire to visit the theatre, and was never seen alive
again. He had just returned to New York from a journalistic trip to
the West. Among the charred remains his stepfather felt assured he had
discovered poor Donnelly's body, identifying it by several articles of
clothing; but as these articles were partly divided between two
crisped trunks his mother declined to acquiesce in the identification,
for fear of receiving the wrong body.
Mrs. Caroline Berri and her mother, Mrs. Martin, were undoubtedly
trampled upon by the panic-stricken audience, and then fell victims to
the flames. Mrs. Berri was the wife of officer Richard Berri, of
District-Attorney Britton's office. He accompanied her and Mrs. Martin
to the theatre; but when the cry of fire rang through the house, and
the audience became uncontrollable, he was standing in the vestibule.
He tried to push into the theatre to rescue his relatives, but was
carried by the rushing crowd out into the street. His wife and her
mother undoubtedly perished together.
Officer Patrick McKean, of the Central Office Squad, who was detailed
to preserve order in the gallery of the theatre, is among the dead. He
was a good officer, and had been made a member of the Central Squad
for his exemplary conduct. He was seen working bravely in the
vestibule of the theatre, trying to get the panic-stricken people to
move out in an orderly manner. Just before the fatal blast of smoke
and gas filled the entire building it was noticed that he was
exhausted by his hard labors; that he had lost his hat, and that his
coat was torn from him by the surging crowd. It is supposed that he
was precipitated, when the flooring gave way, into the horrible pit
from which so many dead were taken on Wednesday. Officer McKean was a
young man--about thirty years of age, and the support of a widowed
mother.
John McGinniss, an old employee of the Brooklyn _Eagle_, was among the
killed, with two lady friends whom he had escorted to the theatre. He
was about thirty-five years old, and was well known in Brooklyn. It is
likely that he bravely remained with his lady friends until the last.
He was an old fireman of the former volunteer department, accustomed
to battling with flames, cool-headed, and rapid in decision, and if he
had been alone would undoubtedly have found means of escape.
The body of Nicholas F. Kelly, aged twenty-two, was taken out of the
theatre early Wednesday morning. As it was being placed in an
undertaker's wagon a young man standing by glanced at the corpse, and
after saying, "My God, that's Father Kelly's brother," fainted away.
The body was afterward identified by Father Kelly himself, who is the
pastor of the Church of the Visitation, and one of the best-loved and
most eloquent priests in Brooklyn.
_Almost Incredible._
The following story would be deemed almost incredible were it not
vouched for by Police Captain Worth. Mr. Hecht, of 431 Pulaski street,
a wealthy merchant, identified the remains of his son, Louis, eighteen
years old, by the gold watch and gold chain and seal-skin hat found on
the remains. As he stood stricken with grief over the charred corpse,
two men jostled him aside, and, with many exclamations of sorrow and
grief, claimed the body as that of their relative, and looked about
for means to remove it. When the grief-stricken parent recovered from
the shock their positive identification gave him, he again examined
the body, and satisfying himself that they were those of his son, he
directed their attention to the marks and signs by which he declared
it impossible for him to be mistaken. The men passed away. They,
however, were followed by others. To these the father again rehearsed
his story of identification. "I thought," said Mr. Hecht, speaking to
Coroner Nolan, "that the people were mistaken in the identification of
the remains, but when over half a dozen people, whom I saw by their
actions had no one among the unfortunates, came along, and with
pretended cries of grief pointed out the body as that of some
relative, I knew that it was done for the sake of obtaining possession
of the valuables."
Mr. Hecht, before seeking out the coroner to obtain a permit for the
removal of the body, placed his son, the dead boy's brother, guard
over the remains. The coroner at once made all the necessary
arrangements to offset the work of these fiends.
_The History of the Brooklyn Theatre._
In 1871 a building association, composed in chief of Wm. C. Kingsley,
Alexander McCue, and Abner C. Keeney, erected for Mrs. F. B. Conway
the edifice then known as "Mrs. Conway's Brooklyn Theatre." Under her
management the first season opened on the evening of October 2d, 1871,
the play being Bulwer's comedy of "Money," with Mr. and Mrs. Conway,
Edward Lamb, Mrs. Farren, and others in the cast. Until 1875, with
varying success, Mrs. Conway kept the theatre open, introducing her
daughters, Minnie (now Mrs. Levy) and Lilian, Mr. Roche, Mr. Lamb, Mr.
Chippendale, Mrs. Farren and others, in the regular company, and
playing as occasional stars, Booth, Raymond, Jefferson, Sothern, the
Florences, the Williamses, and Charlotte Thompson. At her death the
daughters continued the lease, making their managerial debut in "The
Two Orphans." The house was packed, and when _Henriette_ said to the
blind _Louise_, "Don't say so, dear sister; we are not without
friends, I hope," the audience rose as with a single impulse, and for
five minutes stopped the action of the play by demonstrations as wild
as they were encouraging. It soon became evident, however, that the
Conway element could not make the theatre a success, and a lease was
issued to Sheridan Shook and A. M. Palmer, of the New York Union
Square Theatre. Under their management as a star and stock theatre it
soon became a popular resort. But perhaps the greatest success the
theatre has known was the "Two Orphans," the strongest play of the
century, which ran hundreds of nights in New York, and with almost
equal favor was played in Brooklyn.
The conveniences in the auditorium of the Brooklyn Theatre were
admirably arranged for ingress and comfort, but for egress and safety
they were like those of every other theatre. The outer entrance was
shut off from the street by three doors. Two of these opened on to a
corridor, on the left of which was the box office, and at the further
end the ticket-taker's stand, with movable doors, kept shut until a
few moments before the close of the performance. An orderly and an
unexcited audience would have no difficulty in getting out, for there
were two large doors opening from the first circle on to the corridor,
which in turn led to the movable doors referred to. The third door at
the front entrance opened on a short and narrow hall, on one side of
which was the party wall, and on the other a high iron partition. From
this hall one long flight of narrow stairs led, two stories up, to
the gallery. At all times the exodus of the gallery boys, in all
theatres, is noisy and turbulent, but on an occasion like this no
words could picture the rush. Critical examination of the places of
exit from the lower sections of the theatre affords no ground for
censure of the architect, but the gallery exit couldn't by any
ingenuity be worse. Under ordinary circumstances five minutes' time
would amply suffice to empty the house, but when disorder and
confusion reign no deduction can be made, because the base of
information is necessarily unreliable.
[Illustration: "My God! if the Door should be locked."
"Mein Gott! wenn die Thuer verschlossen waere."]
As far as experience and money could secure immunity from danger, the
Brooklyn Theatre was equal to the best appointed playhouses. Every gas
jet was shielded by gauze shades. No smoking was allowed in any of the
rooms. No matches were tolerated. No one but the gas man, Mr. Webster,
was permitted to light the gas. In the rear of the left hand
proscenium box was Mr. Thorpe's private office. It communicated with
the box and also with the auditorium. It was used this week by Mr.
Thorne as a dressing room. Mrs. Thorne was, as always, with him. On
the other side of the stage, behind the other box, was Fanny Morant's
room. Instead of remaining till the close of the piece, she left at
the end of the fifth act. Above Thorpe's room was a dressing room at
the top of an exceedingly narrow stairway, occupied by Murdoch and
Burroughs.
_Other Memorable Disasters by Fire._
The disaster at the Brooklyn Theatre far surpasses in loss of life any
accident by fire in this country or Europe. Theatres have been
frequently burned and losses of life have not been uncommon, but the
Brooklyn tragedy is altogether unparalleled. The disaster at Richmond,
Va., December 16, 1811, when seventy persons were killed, has up to
this time been known as the most terrible of the class, but it is many
times overshadowed by the Brooklyn fire.
The following are the principal theatres that have been burned in this
country, with loss of life:
National Theatre, Philadelphia, Ninth and Chestnut streets, July 6,
1854, and an actor named Shepherd burned.
Fox's Theatre, Philadelphia, Walnut street, below Ninth, June 19,
1867. None of the audience were injured, but ten firemen and five
spectators were killed by the falling of the front wall, and thirty
persons were injured.
The following theatres were burned without loss of life:
Front street, Baltimore, Feb. 3, 1838; Melodeon, Pittsburg, 1865;
Silbee's Lyceum, Philadelphia, July 21, 1851; Gaiety, New Orleans,
Nov. 7, 1854; Adelphi, San Francisco, May, 1851; Sandford's Opera
House, Philadelphia, 1851; Winter Garden, New York, March 23, 1867;
Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, April 2, 1820; Columbia Museum, Boston,
January 15, 1807; Park Theatre, New York, 1848; City Museum,
Philadelphia, Nov., 1868; Academy of Music, New York, May 22, 1866;
Butler's American Theatre, Fifth Avenue, New York, January 1, 1872;
Waverly, New York, 1872; Adelphi, Boston, February 4, 1871; and
theatres during the Chicago fire, Oct. 8 and 9, 1871; Arch Street
Opera House, March 20, 1872, and Barnum's Hippodrome, December 24,
1872.
_Scenes and Incidents._
How true it is that it requires great events to bring out latent
properties in the minds of the every-day people one meets. Especially
is this true of woman.
"Oh, woman, in our hours of ease,
Inconstant, shy, and hard to please;
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A ministering angel, thou."
Another of the many instances of such devotion as Scott hints at in
these lines was witnessed on that terrible night. While the fire was
in progress, a fireman near the entrance on Washington street saw a
strange sight. An undersized, delicate-looking woman came staggering
out, carrying literally on her back and shoulders a man weighing
apparently a hundred and fifty pounds. Thinking the man was hurt,
assistance was offered. It appeared, however, that the man (who was
the father of the girl) was paralyzed on one side, and that, fearing
he would be unable to make his way out, his daughter had lifted him up
bodily and carried him from the parquet to the front entrance. She
desired no further help than the placing of him on a car, and left the
scene before his name could be ascertained.
_A Terrible Moment of Suspense._
In one of those graphic narratives of her experience on the eventful
night that proved such a trying ordeal to her, and was yet borne with
such high-souled self-possession, Miss Kate Claxton relates one
incident of intense interest. * * * "The back entrance was by this
time a perfect hell of fire. Miss Harrison, on my call, rushed from
her room and darted by me into a little subterranean passage, which
led from the stage under the floor to the box office in front of the
house. No such passage exists in other theatres. It was designed by
Mrs. Conway when the theatre was built, so that she could readily
communicate with her treasurer. I rapidly followed Miss Harrison, and
it seemed as if the fire, swept by the draught, almost licked the
clothes from our backs as we entered the passage. As we fled through
it I remembered that it was closed at the other end by a door with a
spring lock, and was usually kept closed, one of the ushers carrying
the key. As I reached the flight of three or four steps leading up to
the door my heart stood still, and I hesitated to try it. I thought,
_'My God, if it is locked!'_
Outside of the door we could hear the roaring of the maddened
multitude struggling through the passage without. We must really have
hesitated only a flash, but it seemed to me that we stood there for
hours. The door fortunately was open, and we were in a second inside
the box office. With the strength of despair we burst the door open
against the struggling throng, and in an instant were in their midst.
We had yet some distance to go; the fire followed us fast, and there
was still a crowd of excited people to pass through. We got into the
crowd and dashed along, heedless that now and again we felt that we
had trod upon a human being. Once I looked down and saw a human face,
horribly distorted and burned. Oh, my God! it was a fearful sight. I
shall never forget it. Afterward I saw the injured man taken out. He
was horribly injured, and I think, must be dead. As soon as we got
into the street we dashed into the police station. There a gentleman
loaned me his overcoat, and after a short stay in the station we
walked around home."
_Escaping through the Grating._
William Kerr, of Hamden street, Brooklyn, says that he was in front of
the theatre when the fire broke out. He attempted to enter the
theatre, but was prevented, and stepping back to the street he heard a
noise beneath the sidewalk. The iron plate over the coal-hole was
pushed up, and the head and shoulders of a man appeared. He pulled the
man to the sidewalk, and he was followed by another man. He was then
ordered off by the police. The police clapped the plate back, and
nothing is known of the fate of the men who went back.
_Mad Struggles for Life._
When the rush from the parquet was at its height a father and mother
with their child had made their way as far as the lobby, when the
father, who held the child in his arms, was knocked down by the crowd.
The child fell with its father, and its cries could be heard above all
the din. The father struggled to his feet, and as he arose with the
child in his grasp, the blood flowed from several gashes in his face
and crimsoned his shirt. At the sight of the blood the wife shrieked
and immediately fainted, falling upon the people directly in front of
her. Two men who appeared to think less of themselves than of others,
lifted her up, and after a desperate struggle succeeded in removing
her to the street, thence to the police station, where she was
afterward joined by her husband and child. The man was found to have
been badly injured by being trampled upon, beside being cut about the
face.
In another instance a wife became separated from her husband. The
husband had fallen beneath the feet of the crowd, and his face was
trampled into an almost unrecognizable mass. The woman became frenzied
and clutching her hat tore it from her head. Few people paid any
attention to her. Her cries were heard on the street.
"Where is my husband?" she shrieked. "Where is my husband? Won't some
one find him for me? My God! my God! I shall go mad."