tiles, crowd up three abreast ahead of the engine. Down drop the crew,
silently, swiftly, sliding from ceiling to floor like so many
blue-shirted ghosts. And click, click, its traces up and collars off the
frames, and snap, snap, until the last hook holds.
"H'm," says Baby, as the thick wheels start, "six seconds; might have
been worse."
"We'll strike the curb in eight and a half!" snorts Nigger, as the doors
swing wide and they bang into Chambers Street.
Out into Chambers Street they go, with Johnnie Marks driving and Bill
Brown jamming blazing waste into her fire-box, where wood and oil do the
rest. On the back steps rides Captain Devanny, steadying himself by the
coal-box, scowling under his helmet, and jerking fast on the alarm-cord
as they swing into Greenwich Street. There is the fire just ahead,
corner of Warren Street, nasty black smoke choking back the crowd. And
here comes the hose-wagon, clanging and rumbling at their heels.
"It's first water for us, Bill," said Devanny.
"There's drugs and stuff in there," said Bill.
Then they fell to work--as firemen do.
"When the first explosion came," said Captain Devanny, telling the story
weeks afterward, "I was inside the building, up one flight, at the
bottom of a well of fire. McArthur and Buckley were with me, playing a
stiff stream to protect the back windows. There's where people in the
building had to run to, men and girls; we could see 'em crowding on the
balconies over Bishop's Alley, and we wanted to give 'em a chance on the
fire-escapes. You see, a red-hot ladder isn't much use to anybody.
[Illustration: A HOT PLACE.]
"Well, they got down, every soul of 'em, but by that time big chunks of
fire were dropping all around us, and our helmets were crumpling and our
clothes were burning. Besides that, we kept hearing little explosions
overhead, louder than the fire crackle, louder than pistol shots, and
when you hear those in a drug-house you don't feel any too good. I went
to the front, and saw fire breaking out everywhere on the fourth and
fifth floors. Then I knew it was all up, and ran back to order the boys
out. On the stairs I met Gillon, and was just yelling, 'Save
yourselves!' when the crash came. It was like cannon, sir, and sounded
_bzzzzzzzz_ in my ears for a long time, as I lay in the wreck, with
tongues of blue flames licking down over me. I'd been blown clean off
the second-floor landing and dropped in the hallway, twenty feet back
from the door. McArthur and Gillon were down the elevator shaft, where
they'd jumped. Nobody dared lift a head, for a cyclone of fire was all
over us."
It is not my purpose to detail the sufferings and final rescue of these
flame-bound men. They had some vivid glimpses of death and some cruel
burns, but firemen count these nothing, nor is McArthur's act in turning
back through fire to save a fallen comrade (Merron) more than ordinary
fireman's pluck, nor is Devanny's experience when caught in the second
explosion and blown through a shop on Washington Street more than an
ordinary hazard of the business. Indeed, this Tarrant fire should have
but little of my attention were there not something in it beyond noise
and house-smashing. There was this thing in it, overlooked by newspaper
reports, yet vastly important, the behavior of Bill Brown, to whom, as a
representative, one may say, of engine crew 29, came the great test I
spoke of, the rare test which nothing but the highest courage can
satisfy. All firemen have courage, but it cannot be known until the test
how many have this particular kind--Bill Brown's kind.
And the odd part of it is that what he did seems a little thing, and it
took only a minute to do, and it saved no life and made no difference
whatever in the outcome of the fire, yet to the few who know--or
care--it stands in the memories of the department as a fine and unusual
bit of heroism.
What happened was this: Engine 29, pumping and pounding her prettiest,
stood at the northwest corner of Greenwich and Warren streets, so close
to the blazing drug-house that Driver Marks thought it wasn't safe there
for the three horses, and led them away. That was fortunate, but it left
Brown alone, right against the cheek of the fire, watching his boiler,
stoking in coal, keeping his steam-gage at 75. As the fire gained chunks
of red-hot sandstone began to smash down on the engine. Brown ran his
pressure up to 80, and watched the door anxiously where the boys had
gone in.
Then the explosion came, and a blue flame, wide as a house, curled its
tongues half-way across the street, enwrapping engine and man, setting
fire to the elevated railway station overhead, or such wreck of it as
the shock had left. Bill Brown stood by his engine, with a wall of fire
before him and a sheet of fire above him. He heard quick footsteps on
the pavements, and voices, that grew fainter and fainter, crying: "Run
for your lives!" He heard the hose-wagon horses somewhere back in the
smoke go plunging away, mad with fright and their burns. He was alone
with the fire, and the skin was hanging in shreds on his hands, face,
and neck. Only a fireman knows how one blast of flame can shrivel up a
man, and the pain over the bared surfaces was--well, there _is_ no pain
worse than that of fire scorching in upon the quick flesh seared by
fire.
Here, I think, was a crisis to make a very brave man quail. Bill Brown
knew perfectly well why every one was running; there was going to be
another explosion in a couple of minutes, maybe sooner, out of this hell
in front of him. And the order had come for every man to save himself,
and every man had done it, except the lads inside. And the question was,
Should he run or should he stay and die? It was tolerably certain that
he would die if he stayed. On the other hand, the boys of old 29 were in
there. Devanny and McArthur, and Gillon and Merron, his friends, his
chums: he'd seen them drag the hose in through that door--there it was
now, a long, throbbing snake of it--and they hadn't come out. Perhaps
they were dead. Yes, but perhaps they weren't. If they were alive, they
needed water now more than they ever needed anything before. And they
couldn't get water if he quit his engine.
Bill Brown pondered this a long time, perhaps four seconds; then he fell
to stoking in coal, and he screwed her up another notch, and he eased
her running parts with the oiler. Explosion or not, pain or not, alone
or not, he was going to stay and make that engine hum. He had done the
greatest thing a man can do--had offered his life for his friends.
It is pleasant to know that this sacrifice was averted. A quarter of a
minute or so before the second and terrible explosion, Devanny and his
men came staggering from the building. Then it was that Merron fell, and
McArthur checked his flight to save him. Then it was, but not until
then, that Bill Brown left Engine 29 to her fate (she was crushed by the
falling walls), and ran for his life with his comrades. He had waited
for them, he had stood the great test.
It were easy to multiply stories of the firemen, stories of the
captains, stories of the chiefs--there is no end to them. However many
may be told or written, they are but fragments of fragments. New York
has one hundred and thirty-six engine companies, forty hook-and-ladder
companies, besides the volunteers on Staten Island, and there is not one
of these but has its proud record of courage and self-sacrifice. Other
lives show bravery for gain, bravery for show, bravery for sport; these
show bravery for the public good and for no other reason--unselfish
bravery. Think what the firemen do! They give up regular sleep, they
give up home life, they bear every exposure, they face death in many
forms as a matter of daily routine, they never refuse an order, lead
where it may (such a case is practically unknown), and they do all this
for modest pay and scant glory. Three or four dollars a day will cover
their earnings, and as for the glory, what is it? For some a medal, a
tattered paper with roll-of-honor mention, a picture in the newspapers;
for most of them nothing. Yet they are cheerful, happy men. Why? I have
wondered about this.
Shall we think of firemen as braver than other men, as finer or more
devoted? No and yes. I should say that most of them, to start with, had
no such superiority, but came into the department (usually by
opportunity or drift) out of unpromising conditions, came in quite as
selfish and timorous, quite as human as the ordinary citizens. And the
life did the rest. The life changed them, made them braver and better.
Why? Because it is a brave, unselfish life, and no man can resist it.
Put a convict in the fire department and he will become an honest
man--or leave. It's like changing scamps into heroes on the
battle-field, only these battles of hose and ax are all righteous
battles to save life, to avert loss and suffering. In the whole
business of fighting fires there is no place for a mean or a base
motive, and can be none. Therefore, meanness and baseness go out of
fashion just as whining goes out of fashion on a football team. It's the
fashion among firemen to do fine things.
Let me give a further instance to show what this fire department fashion
does for men at the very top--for battalion chiefs and deputy chiefs and
the chief himself. It swings them into line like men in the ranks. With
the chance to work less, they find themselves working harder. With
orders to take from no one, they assume voluntarily a severer duty than
any man would put upon them. And this even if power has come through the
way of politics, through influence or scheming. Let the most
spoils-soaked veteran become chief of a city fire department and I
believe we should see him, in spite of himself, forgetting his
pocket-stuffing principles, and seeking the heroic goal, though it kill
him. Which it probably would. As a matter of fact, New York has never
had a chief who did not work harder than his men, and spare himself less
than he spared his men.
Take our present chief, Edward F. Croker, the youngest man who ever held
this place. Let me run over his twenty-four hours, from eight in the
evening, when he goes on night duty at the Great Jones Street
engine-house. From now until daylight he will cover personally some two
hundred stations on the first alarm--that is, everything from
Twenty-third Street to the Battery, the region of greatest danger. And
on the second or third alarm he will cover the whole of Manhattan
Island. That means answering every night from two to a dozen calls
scattered over a great area. It means a pair of horses (Dan and John,
usually) and driver clean worn out when morning comes. And it means to
the chief, besides physical fatigue, an exhausting responsibility in
quickly judging each fire and outlining the way of fighting it.
Almost a day's work this, one would say, but it is only a beginning.
However broken his rest, the chief is up at seven in the morning--and
note that what sleep he gets, three, four, five hours, is at an
engine-house, not at his home--and by nine he is at headquarters, in
Sixty-seventh Street, ready for a hard morning transacting business for
the department, doing as much work as a merchant in his counting-room.
This until one o'clock.
Then no luncheon (all fire chiefs are two-meal men), but off for a
four-hours' spin behind Kitty and Belle, his daylight team, driving from
station to station for the work of inspection, holding the reins himself
for arm exercise, seeing with his own eyes how the work is going,
holding every man to his duty. Studying the city, too, as he goes about,
noting its growth and changes from the view-point of a fire expert,
detecting weak points, bad streets, defective structures, fixing in mind
the danger spots, here oil, there lumber, yonder paint or chemicals, and
planning always for the defense.
After this inspection tour comes the only time in the day when the chief
is not on duty, an hour and a half or two hours, when he gets a glimpse
of his family and eats his dinner. Even then the fire buggy waits
outside, and many a time this brief home stay is cut short and off goes
the chief, dropping knife and fork, to answer a third alarm. There is
some perversity about fires, so his wife and children think, that makes
more of them start between six and eight in the evening (this is really
a fact) than at any other period of the day.
[Illustration: A FALLING WALL.]
So here we have a chief who actually holds himself ready for hardest
service twenty-two hours in every twenty-four, who seldom knows a
night's unbroken rest, who never takes a day off--not even Sundays or
holidays, but uses these for longer inspection tours, driving forty or
fifty miles of a Christmas day over Long Island or out into Queens
County, or up through the Westchester region.
And he is never ill, and he never complains!
To watch the chief at a big fire is a thing worth doing, though not easy
to do, for he moves about constantly, up-stairs and down-stairs, from
roof to roof, from engine to engine, in danger like his men, not sending
his orders merely, but following after to observe their execution. "I
expect each of my captains," he told me one day, "to know the location
and general condition of every alleyway, every stairway, every hydrant,
every fire-escape in his section. When I get to a fire the captain must
tell me what I want to know, and do it quick. Will we find water in
there behind the smoke? Is there a back door at the end of that passage?
How about the balconies? Where does this lane between the houses come
out? And a dozen other things. If you want to fight fires well you must
know the ground as if you lived on it."
III
HERE WE VISIT AN ENGINE-HOUSE AT NIGHT AND CHAT WITH THE DRIVER
THERE is something strange and solemn about an engine-house at night,
like the stillness of a church or the hush of a drowsing menagerie. You
are filled with a sense of impending danger, which is symbolized
everywhere: in the boots ranged at bunk-sides of sighing sleepers, in
the brass columns, smooth as glass, that reach up through manholes in
the floor, and at which the fire crew leap, half drunk with fatigue; in
the engine, purring at the double doors (steam always at 25 in the
boiler), with tongues and harness lifted for the spring; in the big gong
which watches under the clock (and the clock watches, too), a tireless
yellow eye, that seems to be ever saying, "Shall I strike? Shall I
strike?" And the clock ticks back, "Wait, wait," or "Now, now." That is
what you feel chiefly in an engine-house at night--the intense, quiet
watchfulness. Even the horses seem to be watching with the corner of an
eye as they munch their feed.
[Illustration: A RESCUE FROM A FIFTH STORY.]
I counsel a man, perhaps a woman, weary of the old evening things, the
stupid show, the trivial talk, the laughter without mirth, the suppers
without nourishment, to try an hour or two at an engine-house, making
friends with the fireman on guard (it may be the driver of a chief, as
happened to me), and see if he doesn't walk back home with a gladder
heart and a better opinion of his fellows. I fancy some of our
reformers, even, might visit an engine-house with profit, and learn to
dwell occasionally on the _good_ that is in our cities and learn
something about fighting without bluster and without ever letting up.
It was a tall, loose-jointed fellow I met at the Elm Street station, a
typical down-easter, who had wandered over the world and finally settled
down as driver of the nervous little wagon that carries Chief Ahearn, a
daring man and famous, in his dashes from fire to fire over the city. In
these days of idol-breaking it is good to see such hero worship as one
finds here for all men who deserve it, whether in humble station or near
the top, like this wiry little chief, asleep now up-stairs against the
night's emergencies. Ask any fireman in New York to tell you about
Ahearn, and you'll find there is one business where jealousy doesn't
rule. Ahearn? What do they think of Ahearn? Why, he's a wonder, sir;
he's the dandiest man. Say, did ye ever hear how he crawled under that
blazing naphtha tank and got a man out who was in there unconscious?
They gave him the Bennett medal for that. And d' ye know about the
rescue he made up in Williamsbridge, when that barrel of kerosene
exploded? Oh, but the prettiest thing Ahearn ever did was-- Then each
man will tell you a different thing.
The driver's favorite story was of the night when Ahearn ran back into a
burning tenement on Delancey Street, "where nobody had any business to
go, sir, the fire was that fierce." It was fine to see his face light up
as he told what his chief did on this occasion, and the whole quiet
engine-house seemed to throb with pride.
"You see," he went on, "there was a half-crazy mother screaming around
that her baby was in the building. As a matter of fact, the baby was
all right--some neighbors had it--but the mother didn't know that, and
the chief didn't know it, either. He was chief of the 4th Battalion
then; now he's deputy chief--been promoted, y' know. Chief or not didn't
cut any ice with him, and he just wrapped a coat around his head and
went in. He got to the room all right where the woman said her baby was,
and it was like a furnace; so he did the only thing a man can do--got
down low on his hands and knees and worked along toward the bed, with
his mouth against the floor, sucking in air. He went through fire, sir,
that nearly burned his head off--it did burn off the rims of his
ears--but he got to that bed somehow, and then he found he'd done it all
for nothing. There wasn't any baby there to save.
"But there was a chief to save now. He was about gone when he got back
to the door, and there he found that a spring-lock had snapped shut on
him, and he was a prisoner, sir--a prisoner in a stove. He didn't have
any strength left, poor old chief; he couldn't breathe, let alone batter
down doors, and we'd had some choice mourning around here inside of a
minute if the lads of Hook and Ladder 18 hadn't smashed in after him.
They thought he'd looked for that baby about long enough. The last thing
he did was to kick his foot through a panel, and they found him there
unconscious, with his rubber boot sticking out into the hall.
"Tell ye another thing the chief did," continued the driver. "He rescued
a husband and wife in the Hotel Jefferson, out of a seventh-story
window, when the whole business was roaring with fire. That's only about
a month ago; it was a mighty sad case. We had three people to save, if
we could, and two of 'em sick--the husband and wife--and the third was
a trained nurse taking care of 'em. Shows how people get rattled in a
fire. Why, if they'd only kept their hall door shut--well, they didn't,
and there they were, all three at the window, without hardly any clothes
on, and the flames close behind 'em.
"We got up on the top floor of the Union Square Hotel, the chief and I,
about ten feet away along the same wall, and by leaning out of our
windows we could tell 'em what to do. It was a case of ropes and swing
across to us, but it isn't every man can make a rope fast right when a
fire is hurrying him, especially a sick man, or mebbe it was a poor rope
he had. Anyhow, when the nurse came out of that window, you might say
tumbled out (you see, they made her go first), she just fell like that
much dead weight, scared, you know, and when the rope tightened it
snapped, and down she went, seven stories--killed her bang.
"The chief saw that would never do, so we went up on the roof and threw
over more rope. It was clothes-line, the only thing handy, but I doubled
it to make sure. And with that we got the husband and wife across all
safe, for now, you see, we could lift 'em out easy, without such a
terrible jerk on the rope. That was the chief's idea."
"Yes," said I, "but you helped. What's your name?"
"No, no," he smiled; "never mind me. I'm nobody. Let the chief have it
all." And then he went on with the story, which interested me mainly as
showing the kind of loyalty one finds among these firemen. Each man will
tell of another man's achievements, not of his own. You could never find
out what Bill Brown did from Brown himself.
The clock ticked on, some service calls rang on the telephone, and once
the driver bounded up in the middle of a word and stood with coat half
off, in strained attention, counting the strokes of the gong. No, it
wasn't for them. They'd go, though, on the second call. Second calls
usually came within twenty minutes of the first, so we'd soon see.
Meantime, he told me about a fireman known as "Crazy" Banta.
"Talk about daredevils!" said he, "this man Banta beat the town. Why,
I've known him to go up on a house with a line of men where they had to
cross the ridge of a slate roof--you know, where the two sides slant up
to a point. Well, the other men would straddle along careful, one leg on
each side, but when Banta came he'd walk across straight up, just like
he was down on the street. That's why we called him 'Crazy'--he'd do
such crazy things.
"And funny? Well, sir, he'd swaller quarters as fast as you'd give 'em
to him, and let you punch him in the stomach and hear 'em rattle around.
Then he'd light a match, open his mouth, put the match 'way inside, and
let you watch the quarters come up again. Had a double stomach, or
something. He could swaller canes, too, same as a circus man. Said he'd
learned all his tricks over in India, but some of the boys thought he
lied. They said he'd prob'ly traveled with some show. He used to tell us
how he could speak Burmese and Siamese and Hindu, all those lingoes,
just perfect; so one day a battalion chief called his bluff when there
were a lot of emigrants from those parts down at the Battery, and blamed
if Banta didn't chin away to the whole crowd of 'em; you'd thought he
was their long-lost brother. Was he a foreigner? No, sir; he was born in
Hohokus, N. J.
"But the time Banta fixed his reputation all right was at a fire in
Pell Street--some factory. After that he might have told us he could fly
or eat glass or any old thing, and we'd have believed him. Tell ye what
he did. This factory all smashed in after she'd burned a while, and one
of the boys--Dave Soden--got wedged under the second floor, with all the
other floors piled on top of him. It was a great big criss-cross of
timbers, with Dave at the bottom, and the flames eating in fast. We
could see the whole thing was going to make a fine bonfire in about
three minutes, and it looked as if Dave would be in it.
[Illustration: AT FULL SPEED.]
"You understand, we didn't dare pry up the timbers, for that would have
brought the whole factory down on Dave and killed him plumb. And we
couldn't begin at the top and throw off the timbers, for there wasn't
any time. We didn't know what to do, but Banta he did. He grabbed up a
saw, and said he'd crawl in and get Dave out. And, by thunder! he did.
He just wriggled in and out like a snake through those timbers, and when
he got to Dave he sawed off the end of a beam that held him and then
dragged him out. He took big chances, for, you see, if he'd sawed off
the wrong beam it might have brought down the whole business on both of
them. But Banta he knew how to do it. Oh, he was a wonder! They gave him
the medal for that, and promoted him. Say, you'd never guess how he
ended up?"
"How?" I asked.
"Got hit by a cable-car; yes, sir. Hurt so bad they retired him. What d'
ye think of that? Not afraid of the devil, and done up by a measly
cable-car!"
IV
FAMOUS RESCUES BY NEW YORK FIRE-BOATS FROM RED-HOT OCEAN LINERS
AFTER all has been said that may be about our admirable fire-engines,
and endless stories have been told of gallant fights made by the engine
lads for life and property, there remains this fact: that New York
possesses a far more formidable weapon against fires than the plucky
little "steamers" that go clanging and tooting about our streets. The
fire-boat is as much superior to the familiar fire-engine as a
rapid-fire cannon is superior to a rifle. A single fire-boat like the
_New-Yorker_ will throw as much water in a given time as twenty ordinary
fire-engines: it will throw twelve thousand gallons in a minute--that
is, fifty tons; or, if we imagine this great quantity of water changed
into a rope of ice, say an inch thick, it would reach twenty miles.