It is a fact greatly to the credit of all present in the terrible fire
that but one single case of selfish cowardice was displayed, either by
the actors or the audience. Great and noble deeds of daring, loving
sacrifices, and humanitarian actions are everywhere described. The
daily newspapers have given their readers many instances of true
bravery displayed by men and women holding prominent positions in the
world, but it remains for the writer to be the chronicler of a series
of more daring acts and wonderful escapes, and the historian of two
people who passed through the ordeal of fire, one of whom deserves a
place high in the record of "brave men who did brave deeds."
_The Hero and Heroine._
Cornelius J. Daly, the hero of this sketch, was of humble parentage.
The elder Daly, fully appreciating the disadvantages of his own
position, early determined that his only son should receive a superior
education.
As a consequence, Cornelius--or, as he was more familiarly called,
Conn--was sent to school at an early age, and on his seventeenth
birthday was in a condition to fairly combat the world and achieve
success. He was comely of feature, athletic of frame, and intelligent
of mind. He was the pride of his old father and mother, and the
admiration of all the friends of the family.
One day Conn returned to his humble home from school to find terror
and grief supplanting the usual greeting of joy and pleasure; his
father had been brought home in a helpless condition, a victim of the
dreaded paralysis. It was evident, now that the head of the family had
been incapacitated from further labor, that Conn must do something
toward their support.
Throwing to one side all his cherished ambitions and boyish hopes,
Conn left school and apprenticed himself in a large machine shop
located in Brooklyn. His wages at first were small, but being strong
of limb and stout of heart, backed by intelligence, he speedily
progressed, and in less than two years was promoted to the position of
journeyman. His wages sufficed to keep his father and mother in
comparative comfort, but even this failed to satisfy him. He yearned
for something higher and nobler, and after working a few months as a
journeyman, he grew dissatisfied with his position. He loved his old
father and mother with all the ardor of his warm generous heart, and
he feared lest lack of means should compel him to abridge their
enjoyment of little luxuries he deemed necessary for their declining
years.
[Illustration: Rescuing her paralyzed Father.
Errettung ihres gichtbruechigen Vaters.]
Again, Conn was in love, but when he reflected over this last
situation his heart sank even lower than when contemplating his
pecuniary distress. It was the old, old story of honest, manly
poverty, loving the daughter of proud and pampered wealth. Conn was
employed in a large machine shop, owned by a wealthy resident of
Brooklyn.
It chanced one day that the proprietor's beautiful daughter, Nettie,
visited her father's establishment, and not finding him in the
business office sought him among the workmen. Mr. Morgan was in the
act of giving Conn some instructions in reference to a piece of work
when the rich young beauty approached him, and with girlish
impetuousness began questioning about the to her wonderful mysteries
of the tools and machinery about her. The indulgent father, after
mildly chiding her for thus venturing among the oil-begrimed
machinery, turned to Conn, who had stood awe-stricken before the
beautiful young girl, and said:
"Daly, this is my daughter, Miss Nettie. She desires to learn
something of the uses to which the machinery is applied. Show her
around the shop."
At the sound of his employer's voice Conn recovered a portion of his
senses, and, blushing and bowing toward the radiant beauty, who
flashed the brilliancy of her black eyes full upon him, muttered some
incoherent response, and waited for the young lady's commands.
Mr. Morgan walked away toward his office, and Miss Nettie's manner
toward the young mechanic was so kind that his first confusion melted
away like snow before the summer sun, and in five minutes the
beautiful heiress and the hard-handed mechanic were chatting together
with the familiarity of old acquaintances.
Miss Morgan seemed determined to learn all the details of the
business, and Conn was only too pleased to instruct her in the use and
appliance of the tools and machinery.
All pleasant things must some time have an ending, and the tour of the
shop was at last completed. It had taken them nearly two hours to go
through, however, and Conn would have been the happiest of mortals if
he could have had the privilege of being Miss Nettie's conductor and
instructor forever.
"Good-by, Mr. Daly," murmured Miss Nettie, extending her aristocratic
hand, white as alabaster, toward our hero, when the inspection of the
machinery was at last completed. "Good-by. I am ever so much obliged
to you."
It was, undoubtedly, very foolish and very improper, but when those
dainty fingers touched his palm Conn caught them up and, bending over,
kissed the little hand with the courtly grace of a cavalier. Miss
Nettie blushed, but did not seek to prevent this delicate homage, and
with another "Good-by," tripped away, while poor Conn's head whirled
around more rapidly than did the fly-wheel of the great engine.
This was the beginning, and all the remainder of that day and the next
and the next Conn saw nothing, could think of nothing but Miss Nettie
Morgan. He lost his appetite, grew moody, shunned companionship with
his fellow-workmen, and it is positively asserted that on more than
one occasion he secreted himself in the vicinity of the Morgan mansion
to feast his eyes, if possible, on the person of his lady-love idol.
Once he met her in the street. She was just stepping from her
father's carriage, attired in silk and velvet, and poor Conn, in his
ordinary work clothes, was going from his dinner to the shop. His
heart gave a great jump when he saw her, and then his brain reeled and
he felt sick and faint. Miss Nettie turned to give some instructions
to the coachman and her eyes fell upon Conn. Instantly she stopped,
and going toward him a step, extended her hand and said:
"Mr. Daly, don't you know me? Were you going by without speaking? How
have you been?"
Again Conn experienced the electric thrill shot from those white taper
fingers, and once again his heart leaped so joyfully that it nearly
choked him. He contented himself this time with bowing very low, and
pressing her hand very slightly for just one blissful second. Then she
passed into a store, and Conn, with a dazed feeling of happiness, went
on down the street.
But why linger over a description of this love feeling? All of us
experience it at some time in our life, and I opine it is a glorious
experience, and marks an epoch in life. Conn's employer became
cognizant of this state of affairs. Angered at the "impudence" of the
"beggar," as he contemptuously termed our hero and his passion, he
immediately discharged him, and then Conn's worship of Miss Nettie
assumed the most lowly type of idolatry. He would have been content to
do her humble service all his life, provided she spoke kindly and
extended her hand to him but once a year. He lingered around her
father's house at all hours now, day and night, and such persistent
and mysterious watching of one house made him an object of suspicion
to the police. He saw her very frequently, but at a distance. He felt
sure that it would always be at a distance he might worship her, but
it was pleasant--nay, bliss supreme--to sometimes hug the delusive
"might be," and build brighter and airier castles.
A few days after his discharge Conn made the acquaintance of a
representative of the Peruvian government, interested largely in the
railroad development of his country. The gentleman was at once
impressed with the self-reliant intelligence of our hero, and finding
him conversant with the intricate details of machine construction
engaged him at a munificent salary to superintend the locomotive and
machine works of the Peruvian government, then in process of erection
at Valparaiso.
It was demanded by his new employer that he proceed to the field of
his future operations immediately, and a steamer leaving that day Conn
could only communicate with his beloved parents by letter, informing
them of his good fortune.
When Miss Nettie learned that Conn had been discharged she took
especial pains to make inquiries about him and his future. She never
confided to any one her feelings toward the young man, but it must be
admitted that she felt a tender interest in his welfare, and now that
he was gone, missed his handsome face sorely.
_A Lapse of Years._
This was in 1871, and Conn was in his twenty-second year. As the
steamer bearing him away left his native shores in the dim distance,
he lifted up a prayer to the Most High to guide him aright in his new
undertaking, and he inwardly resolved that he would some day return
socially the equal of the girl he loved. He could then dare to ask her
hand in marriage.
Five years passed away, spent by our hero in a persistent, laborious
struggle toward the goal he had marked in life. His efforts were
rewarded, and he had not been long among the indolent Chilians before
his superior strength of intellect lifted him above all competitors,
and a stream of wealth steadily poured toward him. A great railroad
was projected, and Conn--we still preserve the familiar title--had the
sole contract to build and equip it. The determination was to provide
the travelling public with all manner of modern conveniences, and to
encourage home industries, car and locomotive works, rolling mills,
machine shops, etc., were established, and Conn started for home to
engage skilled labor in all the different departments.
He arrived safely in Brooklyn, and at once proceeded towards his old
home, his heart overflowing with joy as he fancied the surprise and
rejoicing of his parents at his unexpected return. The old house
looked doubly familiar as he approached it, but no welcome light shone
from the windows. He knocked long and loudly at the door, but
receiving no response he was about turning away, when a woman in an
adjoining house raised the window and asked him what he desired.
"I was in search of Mr. and Mrs. Daly," said Conn. "Can you tell me if
they still live here?"
"They still live here," replied the woman, "but they went to New York
early this morning to visit some friends, and will not be back until
tomorrow."
Thanking the woman for this information Conn turned away, and with
aimless steps walked down the street. He passed a theatre, resplendent
with light, and joined the throng of gayly-dressed pleasure-seekers,
filing into the building. He asked for a ticket at the box-office, but
was told that all reserved seats had been taken, and that only gallery
tickets were procurable.
"That will do," he said, and, taking the bit of pasteboard entitling
him to a seat, passed up the long, winding stairs to the gallery, and
took a position in the front row of seats.
It was a remarkable coincidence that Miss Nettie Morgan had accepted
an invitation to visit the same theatre that evening. Mr. George St.
Clair Fitzherbert, a young gentleman of elegant leisure, considerable
wealth and few brains--nevertheless aristocratically connected, and
therefore a welcome visitor at the Morgan mansion--had purchased two
orchestra seats in the most eligible locality, and invited Miss Nettie
to do him the honor of sharing one of them. Now Nettie failed to have
a very high regard for George St. Clair Fitzherbert's aristocratic
connections, leisurely habits, wealth, etc.; in fact she had been
known to call him a "conceited booby," but Miss Nettie was fond of the
theatre; she very much desired to see the "Two Orphans," and therefore
did the young scion of aristocracy "the honor."
The interval before the appearance of the orchestra was devoted by
Conn to a careful survey of the theatre and the audience. Just as the
overture began Miss Nettie and her aristocratic escort entered, and
the former was immediately recognized by Conn. Instantly all interest
in the play was lost. He had eyes and thoughts only for Nettie
Morgan. If one had asked Conn the next day the simplest question about
the play, it is doubtful if he could have answered it. Miss Nettie,
unconscious of this idolatrous adorer's silent, soul-enraptured
worship, gave all her sympathies to the troubles and heart-griefs of
the "Two Orphans." More than once tears sprang to her eyes at the
pathetic situations.
_The Cry of Fire._
The curtain was rung up on the last scene of the last act. It was the
hut of the _Frochards_ on the bank of the river Seine. It discovered
the blind girl _Louise_ on her pallet of straw, over whom was bending
_Pierre Frochard_. Suddenly the actors heard whispers of "Fire, fire,"
and a shuffling to and fro behind the scenery. Mr. Murdoch, who was
playing _Pierre_, also heard the alarm, and Miss Claxton (_Louise_)
whispered to him:
"The stage is on fire!"
The play went on, _Louise_ and _Pierre_ continuing to recite their
parts. When Mrs. Farren, as _Pierre's_ mother, rushed in and, as the
action of the play demanded, seized _Louise_ by the hair and pulled
her head violently backward, Miss Claxton's eyes were turned upward,
and then she saw little tongues of flame playing over her head and
licking up the flies at the top of the scenes. There were now four
persons on the stage: Miss Claxton, Mrs. Farren, J. B. Studley and
H. S. Murdoch.
As they went on with the play, they whispered to one another about the
fire and exhorted one another to do everything possible to prevent a
panic in the audience. They thought that the flames might yet be
extinguished without consuming the stage, and Miss Claxton said to Mr.
Murdoch:
"Go on, go on, or there'll be a panic. They'll put the fire out from
behind."
In the latter part of the scene, where _Pierre_ approaches _Louise_,
and she draws back, exclaiming, "I forbid you to touch me!" Mr.
Studley, as _Pierre_, turned his back to the audience upon approaching
Miss Claxton, and whispered to her, while the burning beams above were
almost ready to fall upon them, and they knew it:
"Be quiet! Stand perfectly still!" and extending his arms, Miss
Claxton remained immovable.
The audience had not yet discovered the fire; but after the passionate
exclamation, "I forbid you to touch me!" Miss Claxton glanced upward
at the roaring flames that were now leaping from scene to scene, and
hesitated, uncertain what to do. At this moment those sitting in the
body of the house caught sight of the red flames at the top of the
stage. Instantly wild cries of "Fire!" "Fire!" were heard, and the
people sprang to their feet terrified, and rushed, stumbling over the
seats and crushing one another, toward the entrance.
Cinders were then falling upon the stage, and Miss Claxton, Mrs.
Farren, Mr. Murdoch, and Mr. Studley advanced together to the
footlights with panic written on their faces. Mr. Studley, in his
stentorian tones, shouted to the affrighted people that they were safe
if they kept quiet.
"There will, of course," he said, "be no further performance, but
you've all time to get out if you go quietly."
Several persons in the orchestra were recalled to their senses by
these words, and they sat down again. The men appeared to be more
excited than the women. The aristocratic Fitzherbert, at the first
alarm, was seized with a most uncontrollable fear--his blase face was
the color of chalk, and his thin legs knocked together like reeds
shaken by the winter wind. Forgetting all else but his own person in a
selfish scramble for safety, he started to his feet and was rushing
away. Miss Nettie, although terrified beyond measure, had presence of
mind enough left to see that haste would only increase the danger. She
caught her frightened escort by the hand, and pulled him into the seat
beside her.
"Don't run," she cried; "we will get out better if we go slowly."
The musicians in the orchestra were urging the people to retire
quietly, and so were the actors. Fitzherbert instinctively turned his
eyes toward them, and saw a mass of flame back of the actors, with
bits of burning wood dropping down, and the sight seemed to craze him.
He started to his feet, tore violently away from Miss Nettie, and
dashed into the crowd struggling to escape. The instinct of
self-preservation had overcome reason, and the struggle for life
became fierce and uncontrollable.
As her escort thus basely deserted her, Nettie's self-possession fled,
and with a low moan of anguish she sank back upon the seat and covered
her face with her hands.
_The Rescue--Facing Death._
Intent on watching Nettie, Conn saw little of the play. When the first
cry of "Fire" was raised, he started to his feet and leaned eagerly
forward. He saw the sparks falling upon the stage among the
actors--heard Miss Claxton cry:
"Will the people keep their seats? We are between you and the flames,
and will be burned first. Will the people in the front seats sit
down?"
Then he saw the people in the orchestra seats pause for a moment, saw
the frightened look on the face of Fitzherbert as Nettie pulled him
down beside her, and then, as the coward basely deserted her, he
sprang upon the gallery railing, lowered himself to the family circle,
from thence down into the body of the house, and in a moment was by
the side of the girl he so passionately loved.
She started when he placed his hand upon her shoulder, and then, as
her eyes encountered the hungry flames reaching out their long arms,
and consuming with lightning rapidity the canvas scenes, hid her face
again and shuddered convulsively.
Conn, with his hand still upon her shoulder, looked in the same
direction. The beams, supporting the roof of the boat-house, were
falling in all directions, and the actors, conscious of their imminent
peril, were in the act of rushing from the stage through a perfect
rain of fire. As they disappeared a bright tongue of flame shot out
over their heads toward the audience. It was like a transformation
scene in a spectacle. The musicians were disappearing under the stage.
Liberty seemed to lie in that direction.
"Come, Miss Nettie," cried Conn. "We must not perish. I will save
you."
She started up with a look of surprise, but uttered no word, and
throwing his strong arm around her slender waist, Conn dragged rather
than led her toward the little door that gave exit to the musicians.
In a moment they were under the stage groping around blindly in the
dark, while the angry flame hissed and crackled overhead with a
sullen, ominous roar. Supporting the beautiful girl, Conn darted
toward a door through which he saw some of the actors disappear. He
found himself in a little entry, dimly lighted by a single gas burner.
It was a subterranean passage under the floor to the box office in
front of the house. Pushing the beautiful girl before him, Conn sprang
into this seeming haven of safety, and as the door closed behind him,
the angry flames, fanned by the draught, almost licked the clothes
from his back. Rapidly fleeing along the passage way, the pair reached
a flight of steps, at the head of which was a door. He strove to open
it, but his efforts were resisted.
"Great God!" he cried; "it is locked."
Nettie answered with a moan of anguish, and the sight of her face,
ethereally beautiful in its paleness, nerved him to desperation. He
stepped back a few paces, and threw his entire weight upon the door.
It shivered, swayed, and gave way, admitting them into the box office.
There was yet another door to pass through, leading into the lobby,
through which the maddened multitude was struggling. Resting a moment,
Conn again dashed forward and burst the door open against the
struggling throng. In an instant the two were in the midst of the
frenzied mob, who fought and struggled for life with the desperation
of mad men. Men and women were being trampled upon by those behind
them, and the former were as terror-stricken as the latter. The glare
in the street, and the smoke in the corridor, enhanced the terror of
those seeking an exit.
"Cling closely to me," Conn whispered in the ear of the beautiful
creature in his arms. Raising aloft his strong right arm, he tightened
his hold upon Nettie's waist, and swaying from right to left, fighting
down all opposition, was in a minute in the thickest of the throng.
The two were lifted off their feet instantly, and carried out into the
street with the surging mass.
A carriage was standing near, and into it Conn hurried his
half-fainting charge. Directing the coachman to drive with all speed
to the address he gave him, Conn leaned again into the carriage, and
this time dared to snatch a kiss from her pale lips.
"God bless you, Miss Nettie, my darling!" he cried; and bursting into
tears, the beautiful girl could only cry,
"You have saved my life; I shall never forget you."
Again he ventured to touch his lips to her cheek, and then, closing
the door of the carriage, he bade the coachman drive with all haste,
and hurried back toward the burning theatre.
[Illustration: Burning of the Brooklyn Theatre during the performance
of the "Two Orphans."
Brand des Brooklyner Theaters waehrend der Vorstellung der "Zwei
Waisen."]
A mad and frightened crowd was still pouring from the building, and
without one thought of the great danger he placed himself in, Conn
dashed in among the struggling men and women, to save more lives, if
possible. He struggled manfully with the surging mass, and was soon in
the body of the theatre.
But one man and two women were in the auditorium, and bidding them fly
for their lives, Conn seized one of the pillars supporting the family
circle gallery, and by a few vigorous muscular efforts raised himself
to the top of the railing. Jumping quickly over he rushed toward one
of the exits, through which a maddened crowd was struggling in tumult
and disorder. In vain he endeavored to quell their frenzy. Forcing his
way toward the head of the stairs, his strong arm was exerted to hurl
back frightened men and allow the shrieking, shouting mass below to
escape. Suddenly a cry came from below that aided him to drive back
the uppermost.
"For God's sake, turn back; we cannot get out," was called from the
bottom of the blocked and creaking stairway, and immediately there was
a momentary relaxation of the downward pressure of the crowd. At this
moment Conn extricated himself from the crowd, and hurried back into
the dress-circle. The parquet below was empty, and people were
dropping from the gallery into it, and lowering themselves from tier
to tier. The stage was a mass of flames, and the smoke was filling the
auditorium and rushing into the corridors. He hurried to the front
main entrance of the dress-circle, and there found a mass of men and
women shrieking, shouting and crowding madly down upon the living mass
below. For a while the passage seemed blocked by a human barrier which
could neither move of itself nor give way to pressure from above.
Burly men and weak women seemed alike powerless in that dense throng,
and to aggravate the panic, people at the turn of the stairs kept
calling, "Go back! go back! You cannot get out this way." This may
have been intended to restrain the crowd above from forcing their way
down, but it had a different effect. People madly urged each other
forward, men swore and women shrieked, and to heighten the horror of
the scene a volume of black smoke burst into the passage and rolled
along, blinding the eyes and parching the throat. In this dreadful
moment, when the horrors of death seemed to stare those people in the
face and to overshadow them like a pall, a desperate flight for life
began. Women fainted and men fell under foot and were trampled down,
and through that writhing, struggling mass, amid a tumult of cries and
shrieks and groans, the lower vestibule was reached.
A lady in front of our hero, pressed and beaten down by the mad crowd,
fainted and would have fallen. He caught her in his arms, and now
began a desperate struggle. Persons from the gallery and elsewhere had
blocked the doors, and there were many behind him in the dress-circle,
pushing violently, one even clutching at the head of the unconscious
lady as she hung over his shoulder. Slowly they were making for the
doors, when the flames from the ceiling seemed to dart down and met
the jets from the gaselier. Then there was dreadful yelling and
crowding at the doors, men and women struggling desperately for every
inch gained. A horrible accident occurred. A lady partly suffocated,
like the rest of them, had fallen and could not be lifted, and was
evidently trampled to death. But there was no time to think. He
passed over several forms. Looking behind for an instant he saw there
was a frightful panic in the theatre. The gas or something else had
exploded, the lights were out, the flames roared and the pieces of
wood and plaster fell upon the heads of those at a distance. "Mercy!"
"My God, save me!" and names of husbands and brothers were shouted.
The heat was intense, for the fire was rapidly closing upon them. Arms
were thrown up in an attempt to force a passage, as men sometimes do
when swimming, and dozens must have been swept under and trodden to
death. He had now nearly reached the door. All at once a fearful crash
came, as if the gallery or ceiling had fallen. "Murder!" "Help!"
"Help!" seemed to be shouted from a hundred lips. He turned as he felt
the fresh air blow upon his face, and saw behind something like a dark
wall. He then felt that at least a hundred and fifty people were shut
in to certain destruction. But the groaning and yelling continued
worse than ever. Beyond this wall he could see bright flames, which
seemed to swell and surge in a terrible manner. On gaining the street
he found still more excitement; but he had to hurry to the
station-house with his unconscious burden. In a moment he was back
again at the theatre, exerting himself to the utmost to quiet the
people in the lower lobby, and have them leave in an orderly way, so
that all might get out safe. But when the audience, in their mad rush
to escape from the flames, began to trample on one another, he
commanded them to keep back so that he might save those who had
fallen. Although the surging crowd was loath to obey, yet his commands
were so earnest that he kept them back a sufficient time to pick up
about twenty persons who would otherwise have been crushed and killed,
and carried them, comparatively unhurt, into the adjoining
station-house. After saving these people he returned to the theatre,
which was now enveloped in flames. Men, women and children were thrown
down and trampled upon, but the brave man rushed in among the frantic
crowd, at the imminent risk of his own life, and pulled out a number
of bodies, cut, bruised and bleeding. Those who witnessed his actions
state that he saved in this way the lives of at least forty persons.
When the firemen arrived, he assisted them to quell the flames. He
remained at the fire throughout the night and all the next day. He was
one of the first to discover the dead bodies, and although faint,
hungry, and burned and blackened out of human semblance, assisted in
getting out the charred and mangled bodies, and it was not until the
last one had been removed that he sought repose.
_Conclusion._
Conn, or rather Mr. Daly, took an early opportunity of visiting the
house of his old employer, Mr. Morgan. Being possessed now of abundant
means and letters of introduction from high dignitaries in the Chilian
government he had no difficulty in getting an invitation from Mr.
Morgan to tea, with whom he had made a large contract for tools.
Miss Nettie looked more charming than ever, and to the surprise of
_pater familias_ recognized his guest as the brave gentleman who
rescued her from the burning theatre. It is unnecessary to say that
Mr. Morgan was agreeably surprised, and the gallant rescuer being
socially and pecuniarily his peer, young, and distinguished-looking,
he began to look upon him as a possible son-in-law.
It was not our purpose to tell a love-story, and it is only necessary
to add that if there is anything in "signs," Mr. Daly will certainly
carry off as a bride the charming Miss Nettie Morgan.
_List of the Sufferers._
It is extremely probable that a great many persons were lost in the
terrible fire whose bodies were not recovered. The following is a
complete list of the identified dead, the unidentified, and persons
reported to the police as missing: