A curious thing to look back upon is the old volunteer fire department
of New York as it was forty years ago. No horses, no fire-boats, few
steamers, no telegraph alarm-boxes, only a great array of practically
go-as-you-please companies, averaging forty or fifty men apiece,
scattered all over the inhabited parts of the island from Harlem to the
Battery. Sixty of these organizations, there or thereabouts, were hose
companies, each manning a light, high-wheeled, fancifully painted
carriage with its hose-reel perched gracefully above the running-gear,
decked out with fancy lamps and jangling bells,--a carriage so light
that a boy could start it on the level and a dozen athletic men could
make it fairly spin over the paved streets. Then there were fifty engine
companies, all but two or three specially favored bands "tooling" hand
machines, some of the old "double-deck" Philadelphia pattern, some with
long side levers, "brakes" they called them; others still with strange,
uncouth shapes, built by some local expert with the idea of
out-squirting all competitors. Down in Centre Street was the heavy
apparatus of the Exempt Company, only called upon in case of fires of
unusual magnitude. Near by, too, was stored a brace of what were then
considered powerful steamers, brought out only on such occasions; but
two companies that wielded strong political influence proudly drew at
the end of their ropes light-running and handsome steam fireengines, and
these two companies, Americus 6,--"Big Six" as they called her,--and her
bitter rivals of Manhattan 8, were the envied of all the department. Add
to these some nineteen hook and ladder companies that ran long, light,
prettily ornamented trucks, and you have the New York fire department as
it was just before the war. Famous men were its chiefs in those days,
and the names of Harry Howard and John Decker, of Carson and Cregier,
were household words among the boys at Pop's, most of whom were strong
partisans of some company on whose speed and prowess they pinned their
faith. Strange, indeed, to-day seems the system by which fire alarms
were communicated. There were no electric bells, no gongs, no telephones
in the various engine-houses, which were scattered all over the town,
generally in groups of two, an engine and a hose company being "located"
side by side, though a large number occupied single houses. On the roof
of the old post-office at Nassau Street, in a huge frame-work at the
rear of the City Hall, and in tall observation-towers of iron tubing or
wooden frame, placed at convenient points about the city, were hung big,
heavy, deep-toned bells that struck the hour at noon and nine at night,
but otherwise were used exclusively for the purpose of giving alarms of
fire. The city was divided into eight districts, and the sounding of the
tower bells of any number from one to eight, inclusive, meant that a
fire had been discovered within the limits of that district, and all
companies designated for service therein must hunt it up and put it out.
The seventh and eighth districts divided the lower part of the city, a
little below Canal Street, evenly between them. Then, as the city
broadened there, the great, far-spreading space between the East and
North Rivers, south of Twenty-second Street, was parcelled off into the
third, fourth, fifth, and sixth districts, beginning from the west.
These were quite narrow at the south, but flared out north and eastward.
Above them, on the east and west sides of the city respectively, lay the
first and second districts, the former extending almost to Harlem, which
had on Mount Morris its own bell-tower and at its foot a little
department of its own. Night and day a single watcher was perched in the
glass-enclosed lookout at the summit of each lofty tower, his sole
communication with the world below being a speaking-tube to the
engine-house at the base and a single wire that connected his "circuit"
with the main office at the City Hall, a circuit so limited in its
possibilities that it could only administer a single tap at a time upon
the tiny gong-bell over the watcher's desk, and finally the big, booming
bell that, hanging midway down in the lofty structure, was yet so high
above the neighboring roofs and walls that its sound bellowed forth in
unimpeded volume. It was struck by a massive swinging hammer, worked by
a long steel lever aloft in the watch-tower, the entire apparatus being
the design, as were some of the strange-looking engines, of ex-Chief
Carson, and one of the greatest treats that Pop's boys could possibly
have was to be piloted of a wintry Saturday afternoon or summer evening,
by one of their number who had the _open sesame_, up, up the winding
stairway, up past the huge, silent monster that hung midway. (You may
venture to bet they wasted no time there, but scurried past him, full
tilt, lest an alarm should come at the instant and he should suddenly
boom forth and stun them with his clamor.) Once well past him, they
breathed freer, if harder, for the climb was long, and at last, tapping
on a little trap-door, were admitted to the sanctum at the summit, and
could gaze in delight and wonderment about them and over the busy,
bustling world far, far beneath. Once well above the low ground of Canal
Street, the city rose, and from the Hudson to the East River, along
about the line of Spring Street, the ground was high, and here was
established the inner row of Gotham's picket guards against fire: three
tall towers, one away over at Essex Market, on the far east side,
guarding the sixth district; one on Marion Street, guarding the lower
fourth and fifth; one over at McDougal Street, guarding the lower third.
The next post to the northward was at Jefferson Market, on Sixth Avenue,
a tall white wooden shaft that seemed to pierce the skies, so low were
all the surrounding buildings, and from his eerie at its summit
Jefferson's ringer watched over the upper third and fourth districts.
The next tower was Twenty-third Street, near First Avenue, an open
affair of iron, like that at McDougal, and here the guardian looked out
over all the lower first and upper fifth districts, as well as having an
eye on the northeastern part of the fourth. Then came Thirty-second
Street, far over near Ninth Avenue, another open cage; and in the cozy,
stove-warmed roost at the top of each, snugly closed against wind and
weather, day and night, as has been said, and only one man at a time,
the ringer kept his ceaseless vigil. It was his duty to be ever on the
alert, ever moving about and spying over the city. If an unusual smoke
or blaze manifested itself anywhere, he would at once unsling his
spy-glass and examine it. If it lay long blocks or miles away and closer
to some other tower, the unwritten law or etiquette of the craft
demanded that he should touch the key of his telegraph. This instantly
sounded the little bell in the other towers on his circuit, and called
upon his fellows to look about them. At no time could he sit and read.
He must pace about the narrow confines of his rounded den, or on the
encircling gallery outside, and watch, watch, watch. Whenever he
discovered a fire, the first thing was to let down his lever and strike
one round of the district in which it lay,--fast if the fire was near,
slow if at a distance. This was all the neighboring companies had to
judge by, as the first arrivals at the engine-house, or the loungers
generally sitting about the stove back of the apparatus, or the bunkers
who slept there at night, sprang for their fire-caps, raced for the
trumpet that stood on the floor at the end of the tongue, threw open
their doors, manned the drag-rope, and "rolled" for the street. No
company could speed far on its route before meeting some runner or
partisan who could tell the exact or approximate location of the fire.
The first round from the tower would start every machine in its
neighborhood. Then the ringer would spring to his telegraph and rapidly
signal to the City Hall two rounds of the district, then add the number
of his tower. Then back he would go to his lever and bang another round.
If the fire was trivial four rounds would suffice; if a great
conflagration ensued he would keep on ringing for half an hour, and if
it proved so great that the chief engineer deemed it necessary to call
out his entire force, word would be sent to the nearest tower, and a
general alarm would result,--a continuous tolling until signalled from
the City Hall to cease. Well did Pop's boys remember the one general
alarm of 1859, when the magnificent Crystal Palace at Sixth Avenue and
Forty-second Street went up in smoke; and all in half an hour! And
thrilling and interesting it was to the favored few of their number
permitted sometimes to stand watch of an evening with the ringer, and to
peer down on the gaslights of the bustling streets and over dim roofs
and spires and into many an open window long blocks away! It was joy to
be allowed to man the lever with the silent, mysterious hermit of the
tower and help him bang the big bell when the last click of the
telegraph from the City Hall announced that the second-hand of the
regulator at the main office had just reached the mark at nine o'clock.
It was simply thrilling to sit and watch the keen-eyed sentinel as he
suddenly and intently scanned a growing light about some distant dormer
window, reached for his glass, peered through it one instant, then
clapped it into its frame, sprang for the lever, and in another moment
three or four or five deep, clanging notes boomed out on the night air
from below. It was wild delight to lean from the gallery without and
watch the rush and excitement in the streets,--to hear the jangle of the
bells of the white hose carriage as "she" shot suddenly into view and,
with a dozen active dots on the drag-rope, went spinning down the
street, closely followed by her next-door neighbor, the engine, with a
rapidly growing crew. It was keen excitement to watch the bursting of
the blaze, the roll of the smoke from the upper windows, to see it wax
and spread and light up the neighboring roofs and chimneys with its
glare, to mark from on high the swiftly gathering throngs on the broad
avenue, and under the gaslight to see company after company come
trotting out from the side streets, curving round into the car-tracks,
and the moment the broad tires of their engine, truck, or carriage
struck the flat of the rails, up would rise a yell from every throat and
away they would go at racing speed. It was thrilling, indeed, to see two
rival companies reach the avenue at the same point and turn at once into
the tracks. Then to the stirring peal of the alarm the fiercely
contending bands would seem fairly to spurn the stones beneath their
flying feet, and carts, carriages, "busses," everything except the
railway-cars themselves, would clear the track for the rival racers, and
the air would resound with their rallying-cries. Time and again, it must
be owned, so fierce was the strain for supremacy, that furious rows
broke forth between the contestants, and that between many companies
there were for months and years bitter feuds that often led to war to
the knife, and a fire was sometimes left to look out for itself while
the firemen settled their quarrel with fists, stones, and "spanners." As
a rule, though, there were so many companies at each fire that there
were more than enough to fight the flames, for every company had to run
to two districts as well as cover its own neighborhood. Rowdyism was
rampant in some of the organizations, but then a benignant "Tammany"
guarded the interests of a force so strong in numbers, so potent a
factor in politics, and only when a company had become repeatedly and
notoriously negligent of its proper duties in order to indulge its love
for fight was it actually disbanded. Compared with the system of to-day
it was almost grotesque; but in the years when Pop's boys were in their
glory the old volunteer fire department was on its last legs, yet was as
ignorant of its coming dissolution as of the approach of the great war
that should summon so many of its members to meet a foe far harder to
down than the hottest fire they had ever tackled. They were still
monarchs of all they surveyed, those red-shirted, big-hearted roughs,
and many a company had a jolly word of welcome for Pop's boys, who more
than once had given some favorite company first notice--"a still
alarm"--of a blaze, and thereby enabled the "Zephyrs" of 61 Hose or the
"Pacifics" of 28 Engine to be first at the fire, getting a "scoop" on
their nearest neighbors of the "Lexington" or the "Metamoras," for every
company besides its number had its name, and every company, high or low,
its swarm of boy admirers, adherents, and followers, most of them, it
must be admitted, street _gamins_.
And all this explanation as our two youngsters are scooting through the
dripping rain for Union Square.
As they sped across Fifth Avenue a long white seam flashed into view
just beyond the Washington statue, and went like a dim streak sailing
away up Fourth Avenue.
"There goes Twelve Truck!" panted Shorty, already half-winded in the
fierce effort to keep up with Snipe's giant strides. "Seven Hose must be
just ahead. Look out for Twenty-three now!"
Yes, out from Broadway, as he spoke, a little swarm of men and boys on
the drag-ropes, another company came, hauling a bulky little red
hand-engine, and went tugging in chase of the lighter hook and ladder. A
minute's swift run brought the youngsters to the open square, another
around to the broad space in front of the Everett, and there the misty
atmosphere grew heavy and thick, and the swarm of scurrying men and boys
breathed harder as they plunged into a dense drift of smoke. Just as our
youngsters noted that the crowds were running eastward through
Nineteenth Street, the old rallying cry of another company was heard,
and a light hose carriage came bounding across the car-tracks from the
direction of Broadway. Snipe by this time was a dozen yards ahead, and
could not hear or would not heed the half-choking, warning cry of
puffing little Shorty.
"Lay low, Snipe; that's the Metamora. Look out--look out for the----"
Too late! Half a dozen young fellows were sprinting along beside their
pet hose carriage. No more were needed on the ropes, and as Shorty
rounded the corner into Nineteenth Street and saw the flames bursting
from the roof of a stable close to Lexington Avenue, he saw, too, with
bursting heart, three of those young flankers spring up on the sidewalk
in chase of long-limbed Snipe, saw one of them overtake him, lay sudden
hand on his shoulder on one side and hurl him violently to the left,
just in time to be tripped over the tangling foot of another and tumbled
headlong into the reeking gutter, there to lie, stunned and almost
senseless, till Shorty, raging, yet breathless and helpless, strove to
lift his bleeding head upon his knee.
[Illustration: Almost senseless, till Shorty strove to lift his bleeding
head upon his knee.]