In San Jose, Senator Broderick was busy lobbying for more durable structures for San Francisco. The city erected some iron prefab buildings with heavy iron shutters and masonry and put up a few three- and four-story brick warehouses, painted a depressingly ugly red, on Montgomery Street. Finally they began a two-and-a-quarter-mile plank road between Portsmouth Square and Mission Dolores. The city also repaired Long Wharf, seriously damaged in the third big fire, at a cost of $180,000 and sent it stretching two thousand feet into the cove so eastern merchants’ speedy clipper ships could tie up in deepwater. Captains increased wages to hold trustworthy crews, but the days of seamen’s deserting in the cove were ending as the gold mines played out.
The city’s first modern fire engine, en route from New York, was slated to arrive on the first anniversary of the Christmas Eve fire. Sam Brannan, hide merchant Bill Howard, and Talbot Green, all major financial supporters of Company Three, had each pledged $600 to the city’s firefighting effort. Green had had a street named after him before it was revealed he was really Paul Geddes of Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, who had a second wife and had absconded with $8,000 from a Pennsylvania bank. Green went east to clear his name and never returned. Brannan had to settle his $600, but nothing could dampen his enthusiasm for that splendid Hunneman engine he had ordered with $20,000 of his own money to ride during the upcoming Fireman’s Day Parade. On September 20, Kohler’s term as chief engineer ended and the volunteer companies voted on his replacement. Andrew McCarty was elected, but three days later the Council realized that though the Protection Company had cast 104 votes, they had only fifty members. The results were thrown out and Kohler was formally reelected on October 19 to another eight-month term.
A day earlier Dr. Jacob Stillman, who had observed many of the tragedies in the city, had finally been on his way out of San Francisco. “Good riddance,” he said. He had kept a careful journal of his tribulations over the last fourteen months. “It is man here that passes into sere and yellow leaf and not trees,” he said. Just then the California’s sister mail ship, the Oregon, steamed through the Gate and anchored halfway between the city and Alcatraz Island. Flags were fluttering from her rigging. Stillman observed a large banner in the bunting he could not read. The Oregon’s crew began firing cannons from her deck and sailors on other ships began discharging their artillery. Next, big guns roared from the fort. Thousands were converging on the waterfront, some firing revolvers. Shouts filled the streets. On Long Wharf, Sawyer, Kohler, and Senator Broderick tried to read the Oregon’s banner. The eighteen-year-old’s eyes were sharpest. “Just you read it! We’re the thirty-first state!” Sawyer yelled. “Now we’re at home again. We are in the States!”
“Far better than being a state,” added Senator Broderick, who was the symbol of every Californian against slavery, half the population, “we are a free state!” And that, thought Sawyer, in spite of Broderick’s skating on the edge of the law, in spite of his rough friends and rougher tactics to make the changes he wanted, was why he idealized the man. Every great man was just about a hundred years ahead of his fellows. To him the senator stood for all that was noble in the city. He was, after all, only slightly dishonest in a thoroughly dishonest city. Until now the common answer to the question of a person’s nationality had been, “I am a San Franciscan.” Now everyone answered, “I am an American!”
The Council appropriated $5,000 for a celebration the next day, but the impatient citizens arranged the grand affair that night at $20 a head. They held the American Ball at the California Exchange on the corner of Clay and Kearny streets. Because supper was served at the Union Hotel at Merchant and Kearny, the owners built a carpeted bridge from their modest building to the Exchange so women would not have to go out on the boggy streets and tread over sacks of beans in their fine gowns to reach the ball. The sheriff, appointed chief of twenty-eight marshals, kept the event secure and the American Ball was a glittering success—and none of the women even got their shoes muddy. With Kohler’s reelection as chief engineer of Broderick One, Sawyer saw his chances for any future advancement diminished. He got along poorly with Kohler, who could be ostentatious and once paid $1,500 for a single seat at Irish-born opera diva Catherine Hayes’s concert, even had his men shower the stage with gold nuggets, jewels, and fifty-dollar pieces in heaps at her feet.
Sawyer walked to the corner of Gold and Sansome where Sansome Hook and Ladder Number Three kept their small firehouse and aggressively added his two cents’ worth to the latest volunteer group to form. He suggested a division of labor—hose men would fight the fire and ladder men would rescue victims and use their hooks to pull down walls. Sansome Three was in charge of blasting caps and black powder for all the other companies. Blowing up buildings in the path of an uncontrollable fire had proved to be the one foolproof means of containing a blaze. Until now Three had stored the explosives in the biggest cart in the new state, one large enough to hold fifty-foot ladders but maneuverable enough to be kept out of a fire’s path. A bigger, more substantial fireproof engine house, though, was really the answer. Sansome Three was sustained by rich businessmen, among them their foreman, A. DeWitt, co-owner of DeWitt & Harrison’s warehouse, who paid for a new $44,000 headquarters on Montgomery Street. The furniture alone cost $5,000. “Ah,” Sawyer thought, “if only the rest of San Francisco was built so well.”
Bill Daingerfield, an eastern lawyer who dreamed of making big money by buying real estate and selling political secrets, joined Broderick One as a volunteer. When Daingerfield’s new properties in Shasta burned down, he wrote his family back east: “I will make a fortune and a large one, in the next few years, I will have information that I can sell to speculators at a high price, as I will have full knowledge of the character of all the lands put into market.” He predicted a profit of $9,000 in his first year, and that then the governor would make him a judge. As a judge he would have even greater secrets to sell. Until then he would fight fire and sell a new kind of property he had discovered. He had decided to invest in city water lots, plots of water in the cove that when filled in could be built upon. Senator Broderick had invented the water lot by introducing a bill in a sleight of hand in the Senate that transferred title to the waterfront from the state of California to San Francisco. After the bill passed, the city turned over the water lots to a ring of predatory politicians who were managing municipal affairs. The city marked streets and offered rows of building lots that still were submerged a quarter of a mile offshore. When the plots were auctioned off, Broderick and Brannan had first bid on the most valuable. Though Daingerfield never became rich, in three years the governor would make him a judge. Never more than moderately successful, he would die while hearing a case. His days with Broderick One, though, were his happiest because then his dreams were boundless and possible of fulfillment, and hope still existed.
Between fires, Sawyer did a little river work on the San Joaquin and Sacramento river steamers, in shallow San Pablo and Suisun bays, and traded periodically in Sacramento and Marysville. On October 31, another arson gave the volunteers a scare. The blaze, kindled by an unknown hand, set afire the City Hospital. Dutch Charley and Archie Watson of Protection Two arrived first, got 150 patients out, and then discovered the fire had communicated to a one-and-a-half-story garret. Dutch Charley and Archie found no one inside, but they were cut off by flames. Dutch axed a hole in the roof to escape and sent Archie out first. “After shouting through my trumpet to the St. Francis Hook and Ladder Company for a ladder to be placed against the house,” Dutch Charley recalled, “I followed Archie. We slid to the edge of the roof where the ladder was hoisted and then went down through the flames which burst out from the windows on both sides and singed our hair as we passed.” On the lawn outside, Mayor Geary, a normally unassuming man, was issuing orders directly in conflict with those of Chief Kohler. Finally Kohler had had enough. “Keep your mouth shut or leave the ground instantly,” he snapped. When the mayor refused, Kohler ordered Dutch Charley to place Geary
under arrest. Only after he had escorted him some yards toward jail did the mayor agree to “clear out of here.”
On December 14 a second intentional blaze ignited inside Cooke Brothers and Co.’s iron building at the foot of Sacramento Street below Montgomery. Another million dollars in merchandise and several iron buildings went up in smoke, but its breadth did not gain the status of a city-destroying fire. Now the city treasury was as empty as the reservoirs. So far two big fires had been kept from spreading. The volunteers had to celebrate that fact. The city still stood, but the people thought every cry was a signal of impending destruction. At any moment the Lightkeeper might murder again with the striking of a single spark.
As Sawyer returned home, he thought of the seven volunteer companies formed after Broderick One, Social Three, Big Six, and the rest. Volunteer Seven had not a shred of personality. Vigilant Nine had even less. Admittedly, Pacific Eight, popularly called Sailor Eight, had a striking persona. Because their firehouse was by the water—near Pacific Wharf on the west side of Front Street between the Jackson and Broadway Street wharves—they fought fire as if they were at sea. Their members wore white cotton duck, swaggered like sailors, and operated the pumps of their New York–style engine as if pumping bilge water. They hauled at hoses and ropes as if raising sails and sang rousing sea chanteys as they battled flames.
Crescent Ten showed a strong Cajun identity. Most of its members were from New Orleans. Because Ten marched looking straight ahead, people began calling them Proud Ten. Proud Ten, the most athletic in town, except for the acrobatic all-German St. Francis Company, rejoiced in their supremacy of strength, quickness of perception, and fleetness of foot. When the Council set the date of the next Firemen’s Parade as May 4, the anniversary of the second great fire, the swiftest was selected to hold the tongue and roll their New York side-lever engine downhill in the trial run the day before. Because Proud Ten’s engine house on the north side of Pacific Street between Kearny and Montgomery streets was close to many of the big fires, they usually got to the blaze first. One day Ten arrived so prematurely, they had extinguished the flames and were returning home before any other company got under way. As each passed, Ten razzed the latecomers. “Clean sweep, fellows!” they whooped. “We’ve made a clean sweep!” Ten’s foreman mounted a broom on top of their engine to stand for a clean sweep and carried it to every call to taunt the others, but eventually it proved cumbersome. “Let’s replace the broom with a foxtail,” Ten’s steward, “Cockeyed Frank,” suggested, “and put the foxtail up as a trophy. Any volunteer company that beats all the others to a fire can fly it on their engine.” Soon a tug-of-war began among the volunteers for the foxtail, a highly sought prize. The most intense competition was between Proud Ten and Manhattan Two. Winning the foxtail encouraged dishonest practices among the smoke eaters, who laid elaborate plots and counterplots, sent men ahead to guard any available hydrants against rival brigades until their own engine arrived, or overtook an engine and ran it into a wall. There were three bell ringers at City Hall, each elected for one year by a board of delegates. Two and Ten tried to engineer their own man’s appointment to tilt the odds in their favor.
A contradiction in a fireman’s life was the frequent use of fire to fight fire—backfires, torches to light their way, and burning lanterns in their windows to inform comrades they were on the way to the blaze or to signal all was well. They staged their fake fires, usually empty shacks set aflame, when their firehouse was filled with men and their engine ready to roll. Most fake fires were staged in the Seventh District in the direction of Bush or Rincon Hill and beyond because it would promise a downhill trip. In staging a fire they needed a bright blaze; otherwise the bell ringer might be “called up” and “broke.” Ten staged several fires to draw Two into a losing race. In response, Two planted fresh relief runners along a predetermined route to take over for exhausted firemen pulling their engine. They slowed just enough for the fresh runner to jump under the rope, take hold, and be off without missing a beat.
As Two made a good run to the Seventh District ahead of everyone, a fireman cried, “Up Jackson to Kearny. I don’t care where the fire is. Up Jackson Street!” The regular run was down Montgomery. At Kearny, Two met Ten coming down Kearny straight for them. Both engines halted—side by side—and refused to budge while the building burned down. Another day an alarm sounded—a minor warehouse fire in Happy Valley. “Everybody out! Fire. Start her lively, boys,” called the Engine Four chief to his hose boys. Strapping long trumpets over their shoulders, they dashed to Battery and Sacramento streets. Simultaneously Four’s engines turned into a narrow alley and ran alongside a rival, rubbing hubs while the men hurled curses and traded blows. Then one engine hit a bump and crashed into the other; thus began a three-hour battle with ax handles and spanners. Four Company, suspended for actions against another company, was ordered to “turn tongue in,” forbidden to answer alarms until the suspension was removed.
New volunteer companies followed: Empire Company Number Eleven housed their Van Ness piano box engine with patented running gear in their firehouse on the north side of Bush Street. Pennsylvania Twelve was called the High-toned Twelve because the men wore expensive frock coats, plug hats, and flashy jewelry on their red shirts. Despite muddy roads, they wore patent leather boots and approached any blaze as if sneaking up on it. Afraid to wet their boots, they dropped their rope at the sight of any puddle. Two, Three, and Ten companies held Company Twelve in contempt, calling them the Featherbed Firemen and Patent Leather Firemen. The well-dressed Philadelphians battled flames in spotless brocades yet barely raised a sweat. They threw fancy dress balls and soirees at every opportunity. On the day of a ball, the dandies drove the town barbers mad with their demands for the closest shaves, precise haircuts, and perfect curls. Their guests got high-toned, too, buying expensive outfits and filling the bathhouses and steam rooms on the day of the ball. Who looked classier: the swaggering Twelve in white gloves and claw-hammer evening suits or their fashionable supporters? Twelve decorated their engine house with flowers and moved their engines into the street so their guests could dance. As the night wore on, everyone was dancing in the streets.
When Twelve lost $500 in an engine-pull race with Big Six, they refused to accept their award of second place and ordered the fanciest engine available. Their huge advance payment more than paid for it, but they sent extra money to speed things along. The Philadelphia manufacturer was baffled. “What is this for,” he wrote back. “How shall we apply this generous second payment to the construction of your new engine?” Back flashed an answer from the fashion plate firemen, “Spend the excess on abundant silver and gold ornamentation. Lay it on lavishly as possible. Our mighty engine must be as elegant and stylish as ourselves. We understand that may not be possible, but do your best.” Twelve’s engine order distracted all volunteers from the rugged occupation of fighting fire. “Sam Brannan wants paintings on his silver machine,” Sawyer said. “Now Twelve wants silver and gold ornaments. Doesn’t any firehouse just want an efficient firefighting machine?”
On January 6, 1851, the volunteers met to take stock of their first year fighting fire. After extinguishing a blaze, several foremen had coffee and muffins at the Clipper Restaurant, their customary meeting place. The low-ceilinged eatery above the Custom House and post office was built entirely of ship’s timbers. Waiters carried out coffee in two huge tin pots with wooden handles and poured from both spouts simultaneously. A toy railway running the length of the restaurant delivered the food. The miniature flatcars, operated by a handle like the crank of a hand organ, rattled down tracks from the kitchen carrying muffins to the firefighters. It circled back to the kitchen and returned, whistling, with hot dishes at three for a quarter. It took dexterity to grab tureens of soup and plates of fish, game, and beef cuts as they rolled past. The supervisors, still wearing their helmets, tied napkins around their necks and began to eat.
Outside the window in front of Flood & O’Brien’s S
aloon, people plunged through the thick mud along Washington Street. Ashes and debris from the fires had produced more mud than ever before. From the Point to the sandy, eastern suburbs stretched a vast mud sea filled with potato parings, onion tops, eggshells, cabbage leaves, and fish bones. From the cove’s edge to the Square, the city literally floated on a bog. Man and horse floundered, splashed, and struggled for dry land. “Mud is the element in which we are now compelled to exist,” the papers reported. “It is in every street, and a man is crossed by it at every crossing.” San Francisco was not a town, but a “quagmire” and “chaos!” a visiting Frenchman complained. “When one finally chances it, one either walks somewhat in advance or else copies those who have preceded you or follows the pedestrians who know the way, putting one’s foot where they put theirs.” “It was proposed to cross the street on a hewn timber,” wrote a local woman about a bridge built over mud for pedestrians, “which was nearly one hundred feet and at a height of twelve feet, I should think, from the green slimy mud. I succeeded pretty well until about halfway over when, finding myself dizzy, I was obliged to stop and get down on my knees, and hold on to the timber.… I was afraid to proceed lest I should fall into the mud and water below, and, for the same reason unable to retrace my steps.… That was my introduction to the town of San Francisco in 1851.”
Outside, Sawyer trudged through the bog, studying each alley. He was always hearing of a bold robbery or attempted murder by the organized bands of criminals, but could walk every night and at all hours from the Square to the head of Clay Street and never see a policeman or watchman. A policeman was scarcely found even by day. With so few cops, the Hounds and Ducks always knew their whereabouts and pursued their crimes without fear of exposure. Thus the Lightkeeper was able to move about unimpeded. Where he would strike next obsessed everyone, especially Sawyer. All through February, San Franciscans listened with dread for the first sharp tap of the Monumental fire bell and howl of the rising wind. The next time it rang its long, steady strokes would certainly play a funeral dirge. During the first half of the month, small fires caused havoc. Not a single night passed that the warning bell did not peal of a small suburban fire. Questioning, alarmed, feeling their way in the unlit streets, citizens wondered if San Francisco could survive the next big fire and were so nervous that the striking note of any bell cleared a theater in an instant. On March 2, the Alta judged the volunteers’ occupation a good and grand one and lauded their “skill and courage under circumstances involving great personal danger, and often much inconvenience and pecuniary loss to individuals, who, at the call of duty, cheerfully forsook their own private business to save the community from a terrible calamity.” Fine words, but while everyone counted on the volunteers, they still needed more fire-resistant dwellings. A New England prefab wooden house was raised at the north end of Taylor Street, its precut sections assembled in such a confused manner, the second story didn’t fit over the first.
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