Firestorm

close the danger was to their home or business. This time, the source was easy to see. A house on Cornhill, which is now Washington Street had caught fire, and it had spread before the alarm out. No one knew exactly how the fire started, maybe an ember from a fireplace or an unattended candle. Every able bodied man, woman and child raced to the area buckets in hand. The incentive, other than a sense of community, was how flammable buildings

were and how easily fires escalated. They formed a brigade in an attempt to put out the blaze and damp in nearby buildings in hopes that the flames wouldn't spread further, but the fire proved too aggressive and was soon out of control. It traveled both north and south, taking out every home, stable, and business along the way. Then the wind shifted, changing the course of the fire with it. The blaze burned homes on what was once King Street.

The bunch of Grapes tavern burned to ash. Warehouses full of flammable merchandise became additional fuel. Before long, the fire raced towards Long Wharf. Both docks and ships and all the cargo aboard them were in danger. Along the southeastern front near Water Street, flames lapped at the homes there. The blaze spread toward the Bitter March in Fort Hill Areas, burning wildly, It headed towards South Battery and citizens began to panic. You see, the warehouses in South Battery contained

a large amount of gunpowder. Volunteers raced to remove as much as they could. They dragged bags and barrels, spilling powder in their rush. Meanwhile, the fire licked dangerously close. There just wasn't enough time to remove all the gunpowder. At the last second, the men fled with their lives from both the fire and the explosion. People from as far away as Hampton, New Hampshire, said that heard the

blast for over ten hours. Bostonians battled the flames. By the time the blaze was under control, a hundred seventy four homes and a hundred and seventy five businesses had burned to the ground. More than a thousand people were left unhoused. Despite the loss, no one died. Considered the worst fire in the city's history, the damage came to fifty three thousand, three hundred and thirty four pounds sterling. That's more than ten million pounds today. The destruction couldn't

have come at a worse time. The French and Indian War had strapped the city for cash. Charitable contributions poured in, some from as far away as England. The Massachusetts legislature gave the city three thousand pounds. New York and Pennsylvania agreed to send some of their own relief money too, but it wasn't enough, and while Boston was under British rule, no support arrived from King George the Third, even after Bostonians sent a petition. Some say that Boston held a

grudge that lasted into the Revolution. Firefighters urged citizens to boycott British goods, The city was rebuilt, and life went on over the next hundred years. The fire became part of the past. As the saying goes, those who don't learn from history are destined to repeat it. I'm Lauren Vogelbaum. Welcome to American Shadows. In eighteen fifty two, Moses Farmer and William Francis Channing invented a revolutionary device in public safety.

Fire alarm boxes. Boxes on every street corner meant alerting the public faster and pulling the levers into telegraph with the boxes location to nearby fire stations. In the past, people had used wooden rattles, word of mouth, trumpets, and church bells to send up the alarm. There was a catch, though, The boxes were locked and only police, firef ters or other city officials had a key, and that meant any citizen who noticed a fire still had to track down

someone who could pull the lever. As you might imagine, this meant a delay in summoning firefighters, defeating much of the alarms intent. Still, policemen walked the streets at night, and the city felt safer for it. If one of them spotted a fire, an alarm box wouldn't be far. Other advancements had been made as well. A few years after the boxes were installed, fire pumps, the precursor to fire engines, had replaced bucket brigades. Horses pulled most fire

pumps or engines. Others were pulled by the strongest men within the fire companies, but even those pulled by horses often didn't have riding room for firefighters who would run alongside the horses, meaning that by the time the men reached a fire they were worn down already. The addition of running boards helped carry a few men with the pumps, but not enough to fight larger fires. Motorized engines didn't

become common until the early nineteen hundreds. Fighting fires became quicker once the city installed municipal water sources, and more departments switched to horses to haul the pumps. The invention of riveted leather hoses designed to fit early fire hydrants, made fighting blazes easier as well, but the addition of men and heavy hoses meant more weight for the horses to pull, and so to prevent the animals fatigued, the city added more horse companies, that is, fire stations that

included stables. With so many advances Boston had put the memory of the seventeen sixty blaze behind them. The population swelled to over a hundred and seventy seven thousand by eighteen sixty. Buildings that were once two or three stories tall gave way to eight story wooden A frame structures. The rooftops were answered style, wooden and rectangular, double sloped on each side, and those slopes steeply hitched ladders couldn't reach windows above four stories much less the rooftops. Warehouses

cropped up downtown due to a tax loophole. Any merchandise stored in attics wasn't taxable. Wooden structures, wooden roofs, warehouses full of merchandise items crammed into attics and it didn't stop there. Warehouse owners often carried insurance to offset any loss. In fact, insurance fraud involving arson wasn't uncommon with such insurance. Sun business owners didn't care if they were house burned

or not, and Boston's streets were narrow and crooked. The water infrastructure was ancient, and pipes leaked badly, resulting in a lack of water pressure even at their best. The hydrants had never been designed to have enough pressure to reach beyond a couple of stories where you and I see a disaster waiting to happen. Most citizens did not most, but not all. John Stanhope dam Roll had been born

in Boston then lived there his whole life. While he owned a construction business, he had also devoted his time to the city, serving as a volunteer fireman. With his drive and dedication, Damrell rose through the city's ranks. After becoming an elected official on the Boston Common Council in eighteen fifty seven, he worked on legislation to improve fire safety and enhance building codes. His suggestions didn't go over well with city officials, who insisted that the current safety

precautions were more than enough. In eighteen sixty six, he was elected as the city's chief engineer. He warned officials about the issues that would spell a disaster during another major fire. His warnings again fell on deaf ears had gone over a hundred years without a major fire. They didn't see the value and costly upgrades to building codes, pipe repairs, and installation of newer and more hydrants when

what they had seemed to be working just fine. Undaunted, Damiel advocated for the creation of a building department and inspection service. Finally, in eighteen seventy one, Boston passed regulations for building inspections. Later in that same year, Chicago suffered their worst fire in history, killing three hundred and turning three square miles of the city to ash and rubble. Daniel headed to Chicago to learn more about the fire. He interviewed officials and firefighters. What he learned was a

wake up call. Like Boston, buildings in Chicago were mostly constructed of wood. Densely packed areas with buildings in close proximity had allowed the fire to spread quickly. Hoping to create fire breaks, officials had used gunpowder to detonate some buildings, but flying debris and flammable gunpowder only made the fires worse. When Dameriell returned to Boston, he lobbied to make repairs

to the city's pipes and to add more hydrants. Officials scoffed what had happened to Chicago surely wouldn't happen to them. In late October of that year, an equine virus swept to the northeast. The city's horses became too weakened and ill to pull the fire pumps to replace them. Dam Wil hired five hundred men to do the backbreaking work instead. On November nine, Bostonians spent the day enjoying the mild temperatures. Winter would come all too soon, and many stayed out

well after the street lamps came on. Dam Will was sitting in his Beacon Hill home enjoying the RESTful and quiet evening when the alarms went off around seven pm. He listened carefully. Five dings, a pause, and then two more, indicating box number fifty two. Dam Will knew what that meant. The box sat at the corner near Summer, Lincoln and Bedford Streets the Warehouse district. There couldn't be a worse place for a fire to wake out. He threw on a jacket and shoes and headed towards the scene. He

hadn't gone far when his worst fears were realized. The night sky was a light with an orange glow. The entire district was burning. The fire had probably already started when the only patrolman in the area passed the warehouse around seven o'clock. Since it started in the basement, there were no telltale flames or detectable smoke, Having seen nothing suspicious had moved on to the rest of his beat. After burning through the contents of the basement, the fire

traveled up the wooden elevator shaft. From their clothing and other dry goods fueled the flames as it raced through the other three floors to the cedar roof. Given the flammability of the merchandise, the fire became intensely hot, but no one noticed it until the windows blew out from the heat. By that point, the flames had already jumped

to the neighboring building's rooftops. It took twenty minutes to find someone with a key to the alarm box, and it took longer for the fireman to reach the district since the horses were sidelined. The hired men were strong, but considerably less so than the horses and a lot slower. By the time exhausted firefighters arrived forty five minutes later, the fire had completely consumed the building. To the gathering onlookers, the granite warehouse resembled a giant furnace. Three of the

fire companies had arrived just before damn Roll. He joined them, helping to position the heavy leather hose toward the inferno. He shouted for them to hold the corner. The weak water pressure from the hose couldn't reach the upper floors, and the fire continued to rage. A large piece of granite fell directly on the hose, cutting it in half. The men set to work with equipment from another engine, while the flames continued to leap from one building to

the next, setting the roofs ablaze. Within minutes, more firefighters and civilians arrived to assist. Three more boxes sounded the alarm in the span of half an hour. The fireman looked to damn Roll for direction. Also vying for his attention were city leaders who wanted to plan out a strategy for not only fighting the fire, but also the political fallout that would surely follow. Amidst all of this, a young boy tugged on damroll sleeve, begging for help.

His parents were trapped into building a few doors down. One glance at the blaze told damn Role that the boy was now an orphan, and if he couldn't figure out a way to contain the fire, more people would die. They needed to establish a perimeter. To do that, he had to see what direction the fire was heading. He needed a better viewpoint than standing in the smoke filled street.

Dismissing the officials, damn Rol ran three locks over to Milk Street, smashed in the tallest building's door with an axe, and raced upstairs to the rooftop. His heart sank. The fire had spread in multiple directions. There weren't enough men or engines, not enough water pressure. He had to choose. Stables made of wood containing an abundance of hay were plentiful on the south side. If the fire reached there,

he reasoned, there would be no stopping it. He returned to the men battling the blaze, pleased that at least the officials had given up and left him to do his job. All but a few of Boston's twenty one fire companies had arrived at the scene. He learned that fire companies across the river in Cambridge and Charlestown had also sent every available fireman and engine. Others from as far away as Connecticut, Vermont, and New Hampshire had also

pledged to help. Some were sending steam driven fire engines by railroad. Daniel hoped that would be enough. They had been fortunate to get the help they had most telegraph offices had either closed for the evening or for the entire weekend. He gathered a few of the firemen and formed a plan with what they had. By ten p m. The fire had spread three additional blocks and three different directions. An alarm went up from boxes forty eight and one

twenty three. While some citizens had rolled up their sleeves and tried to help, looters darted in and out of buildings, often finding themselves in need of subsequent rescue. Those had lost their homes wandered aimlessly. An ever growing number of onlookers, over a hundred thousand according to first hand accounts, also filled the now crowded and narrow streets, adding to the fire fighter's difficulties. And when damwel thought it couldn't possibly

get much worse, it did. The wind picked up, ushering the flames farther and faster. The blaze took on a life of its own, but comming a firestorm, the buildings that housed the Boston Globe and the Herald both burned to the ground. Gas lines erupted, popping street lights. Between the fire and the explosions, the city glowed like a white hot ember, turning night into day. Sailors off the coast in Maine reported seeing the fire around eleven pm.

The fire spread to the harbor, setting a schooner a flame. A tugboat crew acted as a fireboat and managed to save a few bridges. Those fighting the fire on land didn't have the same luck. The weak water pressure couldn't reach the highly flammable rooftops. The fire leapt and danced from rooftop to rooftop, just out of the fireman's reach. The strong wind spread dust, debris, and flaming embers over the city. In South Abington, some twenty miles from Boston,

a local found of slightly burned fifty dollar bill. By midnight, the fire had consumed five city blocks. Damn Roll and the firefighters continued holding back the flames as best they could. By six am, Washington Street was ablaze, with the fire continuing to spread through the town center. Meanwhile, city officials had gathered without dam Roll, and by the time the sun rose that Sunday morning, they had come to a decision.

They summoned dam Roll once more. When he arrived after a long night of fighting the fire, they filled him in on their plan. He had heard this tactic before. It hadn't worked for Chicago. It would be a disaster. Nothing he said convinced them to change their minds. The city officials had decided to create a firebreak using gunpowder, and even worse, they ordered him to do it. Everything was chaos as businesses burned. More and more shopkeepers arrived

to salvage what they could. Looters ran in after them, taking whatever the owners couldn't carry. All except for one Hovey's Department store. With the firing croaching, employees and volunteers determined to save something ran inside. They grabbed garments and other cloth goods, using the stores faucet to wet the items. When the faucets ran dry, they formed a bucket brigade from outside hydrants to the top floor, soaking anything flammable. Their goal was to keep the fire at bay until

firefighters arrived. Soaked clothing and rugs hung from the windows. A few brave employees stayed inside, stamping out small fires outside. Cheers went up as firefighters arrived with hoses, dousing the building. While Hovey's was saved, others were not. Fires burned with such intensity that they prevented fire fighters from getting close enough to do much good. Their efforts seemed futile. All they could manage to do was slow the fire down.

Those in the historic district watched helplessly as the fire crept closer. At City Hall, damn World continued to argue with the other officials. In the end, Postmaster General William Burt convinced the mayor that gunpowder was their only hope. Seeing he had no alternative, damn World tried to at least convince them that they should be selective in which buildings to detonate, but Bert saw no value in the city engineer's warnings and remained confident that he should be

allowed to level buildings without approval. With new orders to use gunpowder as a firebreak, Damrol left eager to in any case get back to his men and the fire. His warnings unheard, he followed through with the Mayor's orders, taking precautions as best he could. First, the gas lines had to be shut down. After detonating two buildings and barely escaping with his life, dan Will defied the mayor and halted the use of gunpowder. It put lives at

risk and only fueled the fire. Bert, on the other hand, didn't bother shutting off the gas valves. As you might expect, the combination of fire, gunpowder and gas did more than level the intended building. Massive fireballs shot into the air, high enough that residents in New Hampshire saw the flames. Now.

Firefighters were busy putting out additional fires while dealing with gas leaks and explosions on the corner of Somewhere in Holly, the reverend and staff at Trinity Church spent hours saving the church's valuables before the fire made it too dangerous to re enter. Then they stood and watched the flames consume everything else. The priceless and rare books were destroyed when Copley's Library burned to ash, and several publishing houses

were also just droid. The fire was threatening centuries old landmarks. The Old South Meeting House was one of the last few colonial buildings still standing. Built in seventy nine, the meeting Hall had hosted countless church sermons and public meetings. Some of the most historic events leading to the American Revolution had happened within its walls. African American poet Phyllis Wheatley had been one of the many enslaved members of

the hall's Puritan congregation. William Dawes attended covert meetings there before riding with Paul Revere. A young Benjamin Franklin attended church sermons the meeting house, and it was there that Sam Adams planned the Boston Tea Party. Bostonians still met at the Hall to discuss and debate the city's crucial concerns and sure the building itself was a mere symbol, but an important one to many people. With the fire eminent, the bells in the tower were run one more time

at six am. As the last bell chimed, New Hampshire firefighters arrived in a steam powered fire engine. After hosing down a building across the road, they stopped the fire at Washington Street, saving the historic meeting house. The old South Meeting House still stands today on State Street. Forty more New Hampshire firemen in steam fire engines set up a position ahead of the blaze, posing down buildings to prevent the flames from spreading. By one pm, the fires

began to dwindle. At two pm, the men put out the last of them to a cheering crowd. After a long day, the tired men climbed back onto their steam fire engines and headed home. Bostonians, feeling the worst was over, continued to gather downtown to assess the damage. Most of the buildings there had burned to the ground. The rest were ruined beyond repair. Almost everything inside them had been reduced to ash. Owners and on kers picked through the

sooty debris. There was nothing left to do now except start over. Those who had businesses on the other side of the fire line felt lucky. While they may have had some water damage, they were still standing, but not for long. At ten o'clock that evening, and explosion started another fire. For reasons unknown, the gas lines still hadn't been turned off. A building on the corner of Summer in Washington had the misfortune of being above one of

those gas lines, and it exploded. When another gas line running under the street went up, it sent a manhole cover sailing through the air. Other nearby buildings that had survived the previous night's disaster were leveled or severely damaged. Firefighters once again raced to fight the fires before they spread. Around midnight, with the gas lines finally shut down, firefighters

extinguished the last of the flames. Damrol and his crews continued to oak buildings and streets before officially determining the blaze was out for good. Dirty tired their eyes and lungs burning, they finally went home. Damiel returned to his own house on Beacon Hill, feeling secure that at last the ordeal was over. But sadly, he couldn't have been more wrong. The city lay in ruins. What the fire

hadn't destroyed, explosions and water damage had. The flames had spread over sixty acres, burning seven hundred and sixty seven buildings. The financial damage was great. In today's money, it would be well over a billion dollars. The claims people filed actually bankrupted close to thirty three insurance companies. It had taken seventeen hours and fironman from twenty seven towns to stop the siege. Nine firefighters from Boston, Cambridge, Malden and

Wooster died fighting the blaze. Two more died days later from wounds and burns. Sixteen civilians, including two children, had also died. The military arrived to keep peace in order. Some people had lost everything, and with their insurance companies bankrupt, many took to drinking. Ministers preached on people's sins. In the aftermath, city officials formed a commission to investigate the cause of what they now called the Great Boston Fire.

So much of the city's population was now out of work financially, it was one of the most expensive fires in history. Rebuilding the city in the harbor would take time and extensive funding. Everything Dambriel had told them could happen did, but the commission was torn, admitting that would be accepting blame for not listening to advanced warning year's worth. In the end, the commission highlighted exactly what the engineer had noted, problems with infrastructure, lack of building codes, and

poor construction practices. They blamed the leaky water pipes for allowing the fire to spin out of control. There was one person at fault, they said, the city engineer, damn Roll. The mayor and committee interrogated dam Role repeatedly using any potentially conflicting words against him. They told the press that the hero behind the fire had been burnt for his use of gunpowder. Newspapers quickly retold the story. Fireman rallied

behind dam Roll. They pointed out that the use of gunpowder had caused more fires, and that surely they knew more about fires than the Postmaster general. The committee turned on them to questioning their every decision, their every move during the blaze. No amount of evidence seemed proof enough that they or the City engineer had done their jobs properly. Anything, it seemed, was better than conceding that officials had long ignored the warnings. In the end, Damrol was dismissed from

his post. It took two years to rebuild the city. While that let Damil go, they did use his suggestions, wide and straight streets, more stone buildings, less flammable materials. The city had more and newer fire hydrants installed, and Damrell rebuilt as well. He may not have been the city engineer any longer, but he certainly wasn't going to stop trying to make Boston safer. In eighteen seventy three, he founded the National Association of Fire Engineers and now

called the International Association of Fire Chiefs. As the foundation's president, he published articles on fire safety and building codes. In eighteen seventy seven, the city appointed him as the new building commission there, and he served for twenty five years. Daniel retired in three confident the next building commissioner would pick up where he left off. That man was Daniel's son. There's more to this story. Stick around after this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. It all started

with an attempt to clean up the landfill. The small town of Centralia had once been a booming coal town in the mid eighteen hundreds. When it came to power, coal was king, and the small Pennsylvania town had an abundance a very dense coal called anthracite. The land purchased in eighteen forty two by Locust Mountain Coal and Iron, brought in workers like Alexander Ray. Mining engineer Ray saw a vision for the down and planned an entire community

from the streets to the home lots. Two years later, the Mine Run Railroad moved coal out of the valley to other states. The population continued to grow over the years. More minds opened and more families moved in. The mines provided a seemingly endless source of revenue and jobs, and the town flourished in The town population grew to two thousand, seven hundred and sixty one, pushing the limits of how many people could live in the sixty acre stretch of land.

Life was good, though, and the money flowed for nearly forty years. More. Then coal production slowed and the Great Depression hit. The town didn't have the same wash of funds that once enjoyed. In ninety nine, state law allowed for the Centralia Council to acquire all rights to the coal beneath the town. A year later, the population had

dwindled to just one thousand, nine hundred and eighty six residents. Still, the town continued to export a lesser amount of coal into the nineteen sixties, when most mining companies in the town closed. Meanwhile, in nineteen sixty two, the officials and residents agreed something had to be done with the current landfill. Over the years, local firefighters would do a controlled burn of a landfill in one location while a new landfill

was started elsewhere. The Centralia Borough Council hired a handful of the town's firefighters to dispose of the trash. The current landfill location was an abandoned strip mine pit next to the cemetery, and like they've done in the past, the firefighters set the heap on fire, but unlike before, they let this particular fire burn longer, and some even

debate whether the fire was ever fully extinguished. Though coal bootleggers insist the fire had been snuffed out or they wouldn't have been able to continue their work and abandoned mine shafts. No one had paid attention to the Burrows law that a fire resistant clay barrier be placed between each layer and the landfill, the sure that started at

some point but then stopped or forgotten. Complicating the issue was the fact that the pit hadn't been sealed before piling on years worth of trash, nor had anyone noted that the landfill was situated over open areas in the coal mines. No regulations about that existed then. But even if legal mining hadn't created chasms underneath the landfill, bootleggers over the years had been taken coal from the pillars

that held up the mines. The hot and long burning fire, along with the proximity to an open pit, caused a collapse into the mine. The flames found extra fuel in the dense coal the air, and the labyrinth of tunnels provided the right amount of oxygen. It was the perfect storm that June firefighters were called to extinguish two separate fires in the area. Both were put out above ground, extinguishing the flames below ground proved impossible. Some residents began

to report health issues and moved away. A few houses suffered foundation issues as the ground beneath them shifted, but as a whole, much of the community stayed for as long as the job stick. Then they moved on as well, leaving the population ever smaller. Seventeen years later, in nineteen seventy nine, a gas station owner who also happened to be the mayor, checked the fuel level in his tanks. When he withdrew the dipstick, he found it too hot

to touch. After lowering a thermometer into the tank, he discovered the temperature of the gas had reached a hundred and seventy two degrees fahrenheit. That's almost seventy eight celsius. Engineers determined that some areas underground may have reached nine hundred degrees. The people still living in the borough stayed vigilant about potential fire hazards for three years. Their luck held.

Many convinced to themselves that the fires had burnt themselves out, or that whatever remained was contained below ground, and that either way, if the mines were really dangerous, they would have already caused a bigger problem in the ground beneath twelve year old Todd Dombowski's feet gave way and a sinkhole opened up in his backyard four ft wide by hundred and fifty feet deep. Fortunately for Todd, he had managed to cling to the edge and his fourteen year

old cousin pulled him to safety. Not only would the drop have killed him, the steam rising from the sinkhole contained a lethal amount of carbon monoxide. Despite the evidence, the community became even more divided on whether the fires remained a threat. Federal investigators felt differently, and in three Congress approved of forty two million dollar budget for relocating the remaining residents. A thousand residents moved, sixty three stayed.

The government had over five hundred businesses and homes demolished to prevent anyone from occupying them. In In an attempt to get the remaining residents to leave, the governor invoked eminent domain for the entire borough and condemned every building. Perhaps surprisingly, the residents filed a legal action to overturn

the ruling, though that eventually failed. As a further deterrent, in two thousand two, the post office began refusing to service the borough's only zip code, But despite the dangers and diviction notices, seven residents refused to move and filed another counter suit, though they were allowed to stay in court orders prevent them from including the property in their

wills or from selling their homes. The mines beneath Centralia still burn raining ash over the land and will likely continue to do so for another two hundred and fifty years. And they aren't the only minds that still aren't in Pennsylvania. As of this recording. There are thirty eight others. American Shadows is hosted by Lauren Vogelbaum. This episode was written by Michelle Muto, researched by Ali Steed, and produced by Miranda Hawkins and Trevor Young, with executive producers Aaron Mankey,

Alex Williams, and Matt Frederick. To learn more about the show, visit Grim and Mild dot com. From more podcasts from iHeart Radio, visit the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.