American History Tellers - Great Chicago Fire | Fleeing the Flames | 2

Episode Date: February 3, 2021

Just before midnight on October 8, 1871, the inferno that had ravaged Chicago’s West Side leapt the Chicago River. A wall of flames surged toward downtown, threatening to devour Chicago’s most magnificent hotels, offices, and government buildings. Mayor Roswell B. Mason raced to the Chicago courthouse, but he would soon find he was helpless to save his city.Panic-stricken South Side residents streamed out of their homes and fled to the North Side, the stately residential area they were certain was safe. Dodging flaming debris and crashing buildings, they flooded the streets. But the fire’s path of destruction was relentless. The flames were following the refugees to the North Side, hurtling straight toward the Chicago Waterworks.It was the final link in the city’s defense. Chicagoans knew that if the Waterworks burned, their city was doomed.Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App https://wondery.app.link/historytellers.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's early in the morning on October 9th, 1871. You're a captain in the Chicago Police Force. The fire that's been burning through your city for the past few hours has just spread here to the courthouse. You're sprinting down to the jail in the basement, hoping it's not too late. Prisoners are shouting, banging on their bars, screaming, let us out, please. It's worse than you imagine. Smoke is pouring into the cells from beneath the doors and through the narrow windows

near the ceiling. But the young sergeant in charge is still sitting at his desk, arms folded defiantly across his chest. Still, there's a glint of fear in his eyes. Sergeant, what the hell do you think you're doing? My job, Captain, watching over these prisoners. Unlock the cells, Sergeant. You can't be serious. There are murderers in here, Captain. Mayor's orders. We need to evacuate this building before it burns to the ground. Rooftop's already on fire. I doubt we have more than 30 minutes before it reaches the basement. The sergeant stares warily at the prisoners. We can't just let these criminals go. We're police officers.

It goes against my every instinct, but if we don't release these men, they will die. So I won't tell you again. Unlock the damn cells. The sergeant pulls a key ring off his belt and begins fiddling with the lock of the nearest cell. Stand back now! Captain, what are we going to do with them? Just let them flee? Take the murderers out the rear exit. We'll hold on to them. March them to the north side. You'll be safe from the fire there. I'll gather up some reinforcements, and mind you, keep your gun on them.

What about the others? Let them go. Let them go. They're free as birds. God help them. You look over the prisoners, their faces awash with relief. You never expected to let criminals run off into the night. But this is no ordinary night. The fire sweeping in from the southwest has now hit the heart of your city. You know it will claim countless victims. And you'll be damned if you let more die on your watch. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge?

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Our history. Your story. In the early hours of October 9, 1871, a massive inferno had struck the city of Chicago. Towering walls of flame were tearing through the center of the city and heading north, toward the part of Chicago no one thought would burn, including the county courthouse. The city jail was located in the building's basement. And as the fire descended through the courthouse, smoke filled the cells and dozens of terrified prisoners shook the bars and screamed out, begging for release.

The guard initially refused to unlock the cells until the mayor stepped in and ordered their evacuation. The most violent criminals were chained and escorted out at gunpoint. The rest scattered off into the night. Over the next 24 hours, Chicagoans endured a fire that showed no mercy. Flames darted and swirled unpredictably, leveling landmark buildings and sending residents fleeing from their homes. Throngs of people surged into the streets,

clinging to loved ones and clutching their most treasured belongings. One of America's most vibrant and dynamic cities was on the brink of ruin. And as night turned into morning, residents from across the city faced a desperate struggle to survive. This is Episode 2, Fleeing the Flames. At 1130 p.m. on the night of October 8, 1871, the fire that had raged through Chicago's west side finally left the south branch of the Chicago River, the water break that residents, firefighters, and officials had desperately hoped would contain the blaze. Once over the river, the fire continued moving east and north through the south side, driven by dry, powerful winds. Airborne cinders struck the south side gasworks,

which burst into flames. Quick-thinking workers cut the fuel supply before the building could explode, but that left much of the city in darkness. And from then on, blocks would be illuminated only by the growing blaze. Rowdy spectators on the south side had enjoyed the spectacle as fire consumed the city's west side, but now they suddenly found themselves directly in the path of the flames. The fire tore through Conley's Patch, an infamous downtown slum district. Flaming debris rained down on brothels, saloons, and gambling dens, all built of wood. Within minutes, a 100-foot-tall wall of fire was incinerating entire city blocks.

Terrified residents ran for their lives, clutching whatever possessions they could carry. A handful of elderly and sick people fell victim to the flames, some of the first casualties of the fire. As the South Side burned, Chicago Mayor Roswell B. Mason grappled with the prospect of the total destruction of his city. Mason was a former railroad engineer, and he'd run for office in 1869, promising to end the corruption that had been plaguing Chicago politics. His constituents viewed him as an honest and effective leader. He was almost at the end of his two-year term when the fire broke out. Now, he faced a crisis unlike any American city had ever experienced. Late at night on October 8th, an aide woke Mayor Mason in his home and told him that the city was burning. Mason sprang out of bed and mounted his horse, galloping off toward downtown.

Imagine this just after midnight on October 9th, 1871. As the city of Chicago burns around you, you're in the courthouse, desperate to get approval for your plan to battle the flames. You're a veteran of the Civil War, where you gained artillery skills that you hope can be put to use tonight. Trying to find anyone to listen to you, you're lucky to see the mayor run past. You sprint down the hall, almost knocking over an aide on the way. Excuse me, Mr. Mayor!

As you catch up with the mayor, he pulls out a handkerchief to dab the sweat off his brow. Mr. Mayor, please, I have a plan to stop the fire. He frowns at you and glances toward the closest door. I'm sorry, who are you? I don't have time. He darts into an office, but you follow him inside, determined to make him listen. Mr. Mayor, my name is James Hildreth. I'm a retired alderman and I served in the war. I know explosives, sir. If you let me blow up a row of buildings in the fire's path, I can create a fire break. Blow up buildings? You can't be serious. I assure you I am completely serious. The last thing we need is to lose more buildings. You'll lose them anyway,

but a few targeted explosions will choke this fire of its fuel and halt its spread. The plan will work. I know it will. The mayor runs his hand through his hair and tugged at his collar. Where do you get this idea? It's the same technique they use to fight forest fires. I figure it'll work for buildings too. I see. And you learned about this in the war. I joined up with the artillery company raised by the Board of Trade in 62, served in the Atlanta campaign. The mayor raises his eyebrows. You can tell your military credentials are worth something. I can't believe I'm saying this, but at this point I'm willing to try anything. So does that mean I have your authorization? The mayor removes a pen from his pocket, scratches out a note on a piece of paper, and hands it to you.

Yes. Who's carrying the plan out? I will, sir. The mayor shakes his head in disbelief. Well then, go get your powder. Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Clutching your authorization, you sprint off toward the basement stairs to start gathering explosives and gunpowder. For the first time all night, you dare to hope that this fire can be contained. James Hildreth's plan was risky, but the mayor knew that the city was

desperate. With the help of policemen, Hildreth set off his first explosion on a nearby street corner. But all the blast did was blow out the windows and wall of a building, increasing its risk of burning down. Hildreth soldiered on, but it quickly became clear that even if he could successfully demolish enough buildings, his plan still might not work. This was no ordinary fire. Instead of advancing predictably, its flames were chaotic, driven by the fire's intense heat. The fire that engulfed Conley's Patch and the gasworks was advancing north in the direction of downtown Chicago, home to the majority of the city's offices, hotels, banks, and restaurants. Back at the courthouse, Mayor Mason was dashing

off telegraphs to city officials in Detroit and Milwaukee, pleading for help. The Chicago courthouse was a grand, million-dollar limestone building that contained the main county and city offices and courtrooms. It had been touted as fireproof. But at 1.30 a.m., a burning piece of debris struck the building's towering wooden cupola, a domed clock tower containing an 11,000-pound iron bell. Matthias Schaefer, the night watchman who had first spotted the fire just a few hours earlier, was stationed in that tower. Now he was battling the flames himself. Schaefer and a few other city workers tried to put out the blaze by swatting it with wet brooms,

but the fire continued to spread, moving down the stairs to the floors below. The men escaped by sliding down banisters, singeing their hands and faces along the way. The great bell on the courthouse roof towered above the city skyline as an important civic symbol. It had tolled in celebration of Union victories during the Civil War and in mourning of Abraham Lincoln's assassination six years earlier. On this night, at 2.20 a.m., the bell collapsed. Five and a half tons of searing iron crashed through the courthouse roof and the floors below, landing in the recently vacated jail cells with a thundering boom that could be heard a mile away. The courthouse burst into a giant ball of fire,

and the flames rapidly surged further north into the commercial heart of Chicago. Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams had moved his men and their equipment across the river from the west side, but the firefighters were at their breaking point. Most of the men had battled another blaze the night before and had barely slept for 36 hours. Additionally, every strategy they tried to fight the fire was falling short.

The flames were moving in every direction. Firemen focused on defending individual important buildings, but even that proved impossible. With the help of volunteers, they tried and failed to save Sherman House, one of the city's grandest hotels, as hundreds of wealthy guests streamed out in panic. Walls of fire soon engulfed the surrounding hotels, department stores, theaters, and newspaper offices, reducing Chicago's most magnificent landmarks to rubble. Reporters at the Chicago Tribune building continued to furiously write their stories by the light of the fire until the heat and smoke made it impossible to stay any longer. Chicagoans were struck by the extraordinary noise that night.

Everywhere they turned, flames crackled and roared. Buildings exploded, shattering glass and hailing down debris. All around them, there were anguished cries from terrified animals and panicked men, women, and children searching for loved ones through the smoke and cinders. Civil War veterans were reminded of the battlefields they had fought on as they watched their city burn. As residents fled their homes in fear and hysteria, they scrambled to save a few precious belongings, some practical, some sentimental. People carried everything they could lay their hands on—frying pans, sewing machines, roosters, goats, and pigs. An undertaker had several boys help him carry his stock of coffins, a grim reminder of the fire's rising death toll.

Women threw on as many dresses and jewels as they could, and as residents navigated the smoke, flames, and furniture littering the streets, many were forced to shed these items that weighed them down. Throughout the night, the South Side bore witness to both the best and worst of human nature. James Hildreth was trying to create a firebreak on the fire's southern edge when he saw the steeple of the Wabash Avenue Methodist Church ignite, threatening to spread the flames even further. Hildreth's efforts were proving futile until a former professional gymnast named William Haskell stepped forward and told him, I think I can put that fire out. Spectators watched as Haskell took off his coat and scaled a ladder, climbing up 75 feet to reach the church's roof. A human chain began passing buckets of water, which Haskell hauled

up by a rope. He managed to put out the flames, even as his clothes began to smolder. The church was saved, along with the surrounding area. Crowds cheered and called Haskell the savior of the South Side. But amid such acts of courage, there was exploitation and theft. Looters roamed the streets, plundering stores and pillaging scattered belongings. City residents waged vicious wars over wagons and horses determined to carry their families and belongings to safety. Wagon drivers took advantage of people's desperation, charging exorbitant fares for their services. Some drivers took their passengers' money, only to dump them after just a few blocks and ride off in search of another victim. As Southside residents navigated the smoldering

chaos around them, they wrestled with which direction to run. The only way out of the south side was to cross the Chicago River, fleeing to the north side or the still intact areas of the west side. A panicked crush of people flooded the bridges and tunnels that had not yet caught fire, colliding with each other in the darkness. After evacuating the courthouse, Mayor Mason took refuge in the home of a friend. He watched helplessly as his city burned around him, knowing there was little he could do to defend it. Mason's only hope was that the main branch of the Chicago River would stop the fire's path, protecting the north side from the wall of flame that had engulfed the rest of the city. But soon his hopes were dashed.

At 2.30 a.m., the flames jumped the river yet again. This time they blew north and crossed the river's main branch, landing on the north side. Southsiders streaming across the bridges and tunnels would soon discover the danger that awaited them. The fire was coming for the north side, and the thousands of residents who lived there, even as many, remained asleep. Worst of all, the fire was rapidly advancing towards Chicago's waterworks, the source of all the city's water and the final link in its defense. Chicagoans knew that if their waterworks burned, their fate was sealed. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now,

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and the slums and downtown business district of the South Side. The mostly residential North Side was home to the city's wealthiest families. Chicago's elite occupied Victorian mansions with beautiful gardens laid out along wide boulevards. The area also contained humble cottages owned by working-class German and Scandinavian immigrants, as well as the churches, saloons, and community centers where they gathered. Residents never thought the fire would cross the river's main branch. They were convinced the north side would be safe, but the fire was quickly proving that no one could escape its path.

On railroad tracks just above the river stood a line of freight cars filled with kerosene. At 2.30 a.m., flaming debris from the south side fires leapt the river and landed on the cars. Then, a group of wooden stables caught fire, burning to the ground and killing the animals trapped inside. The two fires merged and quickly spread through the surrounding neighborhood. The flames were surging toward Chicago's Waterworks, a gothic limestone tower and pumping station that soared above the city. Built just two years earlier, the Waterworks was a feat of engineering. It pumped clean drinking water from Lake Michigan throughout the city

and was the main source of water for the fire department. Like City Hall, it was also thought to be fireproof, but beneath its grand stone facade lay a pine wood frame. Just after 3 a.m., a piece of flaming timber was caught aloft in the air and then struck the wooden roof of the waterworks. The roof ignited, then caved in, damaging the pumps and engines inside. Flames descended into the building, and in the span of just a few minutes, any chance of saving the city vanished. In the streets, fire hydrants suddenly ran dry, leaving firefighters helpless.

Making matters worse, without the waterworks, the city's drinking water was contaminated. Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams was overseeing a crew downtown when he learned that the waterworks was contaminated. Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams was overseeing a crew downtown when he learned that the waterworks was burning. Numb with shock and disbelief, Williams rushed to the north side, and as he watched the waterworks succumb to the flames, he gave up any remaining hope of saving Chicago. Soon, Williams received news that his own house was in danger. He sped off home, and after ensuring his wife was safe, he recruited a handful of his men to help him save a piano and an expensive rug. Knowing there was little else he could do, Williams returned to his duties. Many firefighters went home once

they realized the water supply was cut off. Still, a few labored on, managing to save a handful of buildings by pumping water up from the river and lake. Once the fire reached the north side, it moved with astonishing strength and speed, faster than anywhere else in Chicago. In less than an hour, 11 blocks of houses burned to the ground. One north side resident described the fire's rapid path through his neighborhood, saying, a long arm of flame, seemingly without support, would dart out through the air, one touch of its finger, and instantly the wooden balconies, fences, and outbuildings were in a blaze. A Lucifer match does not burn more quickly. Chicago's firefighters, however understaffed and under-equipped,

had tried to stop the flames in the west side and in the south side, but these northern neighborhoods were at the complete mercy of the growing inferno. Ultimately, of the nearly 18,000 homes and buildings destroyed by the fire, three-quarters were located on the north side. Residents had grown used to the fires that had raged through the city in recent days, and many had gone to sleep despite news of the fire's rapid march. An editor for the Chicago Tribune later remembered, fires had been so frequent of late, they had been so speedily extinguished, that I did not deem it worthwhile to get up and look at it, or even to count the strokes of the bell to learn where it was. Northside residents watched the flames from the verandas or ordered

their cooks to feed the refugees from the south side. They did not know that before the night was over, they too would have to fight to save their homes, their belongings, and their lives. Imagine it's before dawn on October 9th, 1871. You live in one of the finest homes on Chicago's North Side, and you've just woken up to the sound of a deafening crash outside your window. John, John, wake up! Your husband is still fast asleep as you hurry to the window. The view makes your stomach lurch. A wall of fire is just blocks from your house. John, do you hear me? Get up! John, there's a fire!

Honey, the south side's burning. Go back to sleep. No, no, John. The fire's crossed the river. We need to get out of here. Your husband jumps out of bed to stand beside you at the window, his eyes widening at the scene outside. Oh, my God. We'll be burned up. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Hurry, get our things. You throw your favorite coat over your nightgown. You begin to lace up your shoes, your fingers trembling. The jug on the nightstand. Drench our things. You throw your favorite coat over your nightgown. You begin to lace up your shoes, your fingers, trembling.

The jug on the nightstand. Drench our clothes. Your husband pours water on his sleeves and hands the rest to you before bolting for the door. I'll get the greenbacks out of this study. Don't forget the Bible. You slosh some more water on your coat. Then, running over to your vanity, you grab your mother's pearls and stuff them into a pocket before heading for the stairs.

As you reach the entryway, you find your husband standing on the dining room table, unscrewing the crystal chandelier from the ceiling. John, what are you doing? This is brand new, Margaret. Best in the neighborhood. I'm not leaving it behind. You glance out the window, and to your horror, the front hedges are already ablaze. You're beginning to sweat beneath your heavy coat. Then you notice something that makes your heart stop. The walls are starting to smoke. John, leave it. We're running out of time. I'll have Tom ready the carriage. You fling open the front door and take in the chaos before you.

Through the falling cinders and the clouds of black smoke, you see a crying woman and child run past. A pair of old men are jostling for a wagon. Across the street, a servant heaves a rolled-up rug from a second-floor balcony. You run across the lawn toward your carriage. But just as you reach your driveway, you realize someone has already hitched it to your horse. A young man you don't recognize is standing in the driver's box, holding the reins. Hey, that's not yours! The man ignores you and rides off with your only means of transportation. You look back towards your husband, running out of the house with a bag of cash slung around his shoulder. The smoke is only growing denser, the flames hotter and stronger. You are certain your home is doomed, and now maybe you are too.

In the early hours of October 9th, wealthy residents on Chicago's north side woke up to the sounds of falling debris and the screams of their neighbors. Rushing to gather up their belongings, they stumble out of marble mansions, most never to return. Residents attempted to safeguard their homes by soaking rugs and blankets in their bathtubs and nailing them to their doors and roofs. With the help of their servants, they loaded family heirlooms, furniture, clothing, silverware, and paintings into their wagons or carried them off on foot. Some residents dug pits to protect valuables from the fire. One wealthy lawyer buried his prized piano in his backyard, but the flames were hotter than anyone predicted, reducing all but a few of the buried possessions to ash. Chicago's north side was also home to

some of the city's most priceless historic objects. Many were stored at the Chicago Historical Society, which contained a supposedly fireproof basement. Families, eager to safeguard their possessions, flocked to the society's basements with their trunks until a librarian named Samuel Stone arrived and turned them away. Stone was determined to protect Chicago's most valuable treasure, Abraham Lincoln's original draft of the Emancipation Proclamation, the executive order that had freed enslaved people just nine years earlier. The Society had acquired the manuscript during the Civil War for public exhibition. Now Stone ran upstairs to retrieve the document, but he struggled to break its glass

display case. Cinders and debris were battering the windows. Stone gave up and ran for the door, certain that if he stayed one minute longer, he would die. The Emancipation Proclamation burned to ash, along with the rest of the Society's collections. More historic artifacts were stored in the magnificent home of writer, lawyer, and former Congressman Isaac Arnold, who lived two blocks from the waterworks. Arnold's personal library contained 10,000 books, as well as a collection of priceless letters from his friends Abraham

Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Union General William Tecumseh Sherman. He also owned some of the most valuable paintings in the city. When the fire first reached the north side, Arnold's wife and nine-year-old daughter sped off to help another family member. Arnold stayed behind with his three older children and his servants, launching a desperate two-hour battle to save his home. They managed to put out a few small fires, but before long the flames were spreading too quickly. Arnold's roof, greenhouse, and barn caught fire just as their water supply ran dry. Finally, Arnold gave up all hope of saving his home and his irreplaceable collections.

Soaring walls of fire were advancing on his property from three directions. He knew his only option was to head east toward the lakeshore. Arnold and his servants sprinted off with their animals in tow. Chicago's well-to-do were reduced to a misery they had never before experienced, but they still had several advantages. Wealthy families like the Arnolds had servants to help defend their homes and rescue their belongings. They owned carriages or had the money to pay for them, even at inflated rates. And they had networks of friends who could take them in or lend a hand. Few other Chicago residents had such resources at their disposal.

Most were cast out into the chaos to fend for themselves. And as residents left their homes and their belongings behind, they raced across their smoldering city searching for safety. The number of refugees was growing, with families divided and the fire showing no signs of abating. As dawn approached, the hunt for safety and survival grew more desperate than ever. In November 1991, media tycoon Robert Maxwell mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed. It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt, and multi-million dollar fraud.

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you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still have heard it. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the

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The park contained a cemetery that was in the middle of being relocated, leaving a number of empty graves in the ground. Many families jumped into the open plots to escape the smoke. Others fled to the open prairies north and northwest of the city, three miles from downtown. The dazed and disoriented refugees camped out amid scattered piles of furniture and clothing, watching and waiting as their city burned. But the fire was relentless, and as gales of wind blew the flames northward, the prairie grasses ignited, and the families located there were forced to flee even further west.

Among these refugees was Julia Lemos, a 29-year-old artist and widow. Since her husband died, she'd struggled with poverty and been forced to place her four older children in an orphanage. When the fire started, Lemos left her baby with her parents and raced to the orphanage to rescue her older children. They then caught a ride to the prairie with her landlord. The family rested only an hour before Lemos woke her children to escape the flames advancing again.

This time, they fled on foot, and they were forced to leave their belongings behind. She later remembered, The fire was on us, the wind blew, and set fire to all the goods on the prairie. We had to run again and leave everything to burn. This time we felt the heat on our backs when we ran. Thousands of others fled east to a third refuge, the Sands. It was a strip of beach where the lakeshore met the river and was once a notorious hub for gambling

and prostitution. A reporter who witnessed the crowd streaming into the sands described the scene. Like an immense drove of panic-stricken sheep, the terrified mass ran and rushed and scrambled and screamed through the streets. Chicago continued to burn as thousands of men, women, and children huddled together at the sands. It seemed as though there would be no respite. At sunrise, an enormous lumberyard on the riverbank just south of the sands. It seemed as though there would be no respite. At sunrise, an enormous lumberyard on the riverbank just south of the sands ignited. The fire spread to the nearby Illinois Central Railroad Complex and the McCormick Reaper Works. Smoke and cinders poured down on the refugees. They were trapped by the flames on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. The suffocating smoke

and scorching heat became unbearable. One refugee described the driving, burning sand, cutting us like needle points and putting our eyes nearly out. As the morning sun climbed higher, people waded into the freezing, neck-high waters of the lake in search of relief. Many would remain there for as long as ten hours until nightfall. One of the refugees at the sands was Isaac Arnold, the wealthy man who had failed to save his collection of Abraham Lincoln memorabilia. Hoping to escape the scorching misery of the sands, Arnold left his servant behind, as well as the horse, cow, and pig that the man had rescued. He led his three children to the end of a pier, where they found

a wooden rowboat. The Arnolds rowed out to a lighthouse that stood out on another pier, jutting out into the lake. There they joined a small group of fellow refugees, including a bank cashier carting a trunk that held $1.6 million in cash and securities, more than $30 million in today's money. For the next several hours, these refugees waited inside the lighthouse, watching the blazing shoreline in horror, the fire showing no signs of

relenting. They were stranded. Imagine it's four o'clock in the afternoon on October 9th, 1871. A great inferno has been burning through your city for nearly a day. Now you and your three children have fled to a lighthouse on Lake Michigan. You're huddled alongside a handful of other families. A blistering wind is blowing off the shore, carrying sparks and cinders in your direction. It's got to be just a little longer, son. This fire can't burn forever. Your son responds with a dubious look on his face. You think Mother and Alice are safe? I'm not sure. You give him a small smile. The truth is, you have no idea if your wife and daughter are safe. You've had little to do but agonize over their whereabouts since you were separated more than 12 hours ago. Your son peeks out of the

lighthouse and points at a burning rowboat drifting past. That's the third burning boat in less than an hour. How long are we going to wait here? Isn't there something we can do? We can pray for deliverance. You're trying to put on a brave face for your boy. But you know deep down that even out on the water, you're nowhere near safe. If anything, the danger is only growing. You have to find a way out. Desperate to make a plan of action, you walk outside and assess the scene across the water,

holding a wet handkerchief to your mouth. Suddenly, your heart leaps. A tugboat has just moored at the lighthouse. And as the captain ties his boat to the dock, you notice that it is slightly smoldering. Uh, hello. You need help with that? The man wipes his brow with his sleeve and smiles at you gratefully. Thanks. No, I think we've got it. He points at the blistered deck. She's not in great shape. I'm hoping I can wait the fire out here. I wouldn't be so sure about that, Captain. The wind

is blowing strong from the shore. I don't think this lighthouse is safe. The captain's face falls. This was my last hope. I point to the spot where the lake meets the river. I have an idea. This might sound crazy, but I think the best chance of escaping the fire is to go right through it. Back up the river and to the west side. From the lighthouse up there, we spotted an area the flames haven't yet reached. That is crazy. I know, but if we stay here, I fear we're doomed. Those flames keep getting closer. Your boat will burn. Take me and my family.

Let's go back through the flames and find safety. Absolutely not. I'm prepared to pay handsomely for your services. Captain raises an eyebrow. Oh, how handsomely. An idea occurs to you. Well? There's a banker in that lighthouse with more than a million dollars in cash.

I'm sure he would be willing to part with some of it. A million dollars? That's right. And you look like you know what you're doing. I have every confidence you can navigate the flames. The captain shakes his head and stares up at the sky. But what the hell? I don't have any other ideas. You better be prepared to help me put out any fires that break out.

Of course, of course. I'll get the others. You rush back to the lighthouse, hope swelling in your chest. You know you're not safe yet, but you also know you can't wait in this lighthouse forever. And if you make it through to the other side of the flames, you'll be one step closer to reuniting with the rest of your family. Late in the afternoon the day after the fire began, Isaac Arnold convinced a tugboat captain to take him, his children, and a handful of other refugees back up the river to the unburned area of the west side in exchange for a hefty pile of cash. The group dodged falling cinders as they chugged down the narrow river with flames closing

in on them from both sides. As sparks and debris rained down on them, the men on board put out one fire after another. When the group finally passed a smoldering pile of timber and iron that had once been a bridge, the pilots shouted to Arnold, We are through, sir. They had made it to the unburned portion of the west side, some of the last refuges in the city. Arnold would spend the next 24 hours searching for the rest of his family, before finally finding them at the home of a friend in the suburbs. But all across the city and in the surrounding prairies, other Chicagoans were still waiting out the fires to look for their loved ones.

Then, around midnight, people sensed a shift in the air. A cold drizzle began to fall on the burning city. And by 3 a.m., the rain was falling steadily and extinguishing the remaining flames. At long last, the three-month drought was broken, and the inferno thatage of their city. The streets were still blazing hot as they combed the rubble for bodies and grappled with the destruction around them. The Great Chicago Fire was extinguished, but the disaster was far from over. Now, Chicagoans would confront a massive humanitarian crisis and the overwhelming challenge of restoring

their once great city. From Wondery, this is episode two of The Great Chicago Fire from American History Tellers. On the next episode, city leaders scramble to provide basic needs to the tens of thousands left homeless by the fire. And amid fears of looting and lawlessness, Mayor Roswell B. Mason places Chicago under martial law. Meanwhile, business leaders make ambitious plans to rebuild their ruined city. To be continued... us about yourself by filling outan Lopez for Wondery. alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store, or maybe you're with your secret lover, or maybe you're robbing a bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming.

What am I supposed to do? Featuring incredible performances from Tracy Letts, Mary Lou Henner, Mary Elizabeth Ellis, Paul Edelstein, and many, many more, Incoming is a hilariously thrilling podcast that will leave you wondering, how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? You can binge Incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.