Captain Nicholas McDuffy.
Before the introduction of the improved method of fire fighting in
Southern cities--before the steam engine, the hook and ladder and water
tower companies supplanted the old hand pump and bucket companies, the
Negro was the chief fire fighter, and there was nothing that tended more
to make fire fighting a pleasant pastime than those old volunteer
organizations. For many years after the war Wilmington was supplied with
water for the putting out of fires by means of cisterns which were built
in the centre of streets. When the old bell in the market house tower
sounded the alarm of fire, the volunteers left their work and hastened
to headquarters to drag forth the old hand pump and make for the cistern
nearest the scene of the fire, where, keeping time to the tune of some
lively song, they pumped the fire out. There was peculiar sweetness in
those old songs which made fire fighting a fascinating pastime in those
old days. While a few men spannered the hose, directed the stream and
did the work of rescuing and saving furniture, etc., the majority were
required to man the pumps. Thirty or forty men in brilliant uniform
lined up on either side of the huge engine, tugging away at the great
horizontal handles, presented a spectacle which no one even in these
days of advancement would despise. And the singing!
"O Lindy, Lindy my dear honey,
Lindy, gal, I'm boun' to go;
O Lindy, Lindy my dear honey,
O Lindy, gal, I'm boun' to go," etc.
A few lines of another:
"The cows in de ole field, don't yo' hear de bell?
Let her go, let her go.
The cows in de ole field, don't yo' hear de bell?
Let her go, let her go," etc.
But the things that will make those old organizations live longest in
the memory are their frolics, excursions and picnics, full of all that
appealed to the appetite for pleasure and excitement. There the dancer,
the fighter, the runner, the wrestler, could indulge freely in his
favorite pastime; there old scores could be settled and new ones made.
The most noteworthy and serviceable of those old volunteer organizations
was the old "Brooklyn No. 4," which guarded that portion of the city
known by that name. No. 2, in the middle section, and the "Old No. 3
Double Deck," in the southern part of the city. These old-fashioned
machines have given place to the modern fire fighter, the steam engine.
But of all of these banished organizations, No. 3 will be the longest
remembered. Upon her roll were the names of some of Wilmington's best
citizens. In the year 1873 this company, too serviceable to be
disbanded, was reorganized under the name of "Cape Fear Engine Company,"
and presented by the city with a handsome steam engine of that name. And
although the Germans had replaced their hand pump by costly steamer, and
a company had been organized among the aristocracy, this colored company
kept and maintained the reputation of being the best fire fighters in
the city, and second to none in the entire State. Upon the walls of
their engine house hung trophies for superior firemanship won in nearly
every city in the State. The insurance companies of the city recognized
their value as savers of property, and upon more than one occasion made
them valuable presents. Only men of good repute who could "stand the
gaze of an honest eye" were eligible to membership in the Cape Fear Fire
Company, and he who aspired to leadership must be efficient both in
character and experience as a fire fighter. I write the above that the
reader may know what manner of man this was who was compelled to leave
his home, his wife and little ones and flee for his life. Captain
Nicholas McDuffy was at one time foreman of the Cape Fear Engine
Company. McDuffy came to Wilmington a rough country lad, secured
employment, went to work, saved his money, bought property and became a
citizen of note and respectability. He joined the engine company and
rose like a meteor to its foremost rank. The relations between the races
in the South have always been such that it requires a Negro of Spartan
courage to face a white man and return blow for blow, it matters not how
righteous may be his cause. Captain Nicholas McDuffy was a man without
fear. Two or three years ago, while a member of the police force of
Wilmington, it became his duty to arrest some white roughs for
disorderly conduct. It was a hazardous undertaking, but McDuffy waded in
and landed his men, but it cost him dear. His body was so hacked by
knife thrusts that he was compelled to go to the hospital for repairs.
Generally policemen are commended and rewarded for such heroic deeds,
but this placed the name of Nicholas McDuffy upon the death list. A
Negro officer must not presume to arrest a white man. There were,
however, white men who admired McDuffy for his frankness and courage,
and when the riotous excitement was at its height and the assassins were
seeking here and there for victims, one of these true men warned McDuffy
just in time to get into the swamp before a mob surrounded his house.
They pursued him, however, but by swimming a creek not far from the
city's limit he escaped their bullets, and without coat or hat made his
way to New Berne. His poor wife and children were left to the mercy of
the mob, who drove them forth and burned the house behind them.