American History Tellers - Great Chicago Fire | We Are Going to Have a Burn | 1

Episode Date: January 27, 2021

In 1871, Chicago was the fastest growing city in the world. Built almost entirely of wood, it was also a tinderbox. That October, a severe drought ravaged the city. Fires ignited constantly, and Chicago’s firefighters were at their breaking point. But the worst was yet to come.On a hot, windy night, a fire broke out in a barn owned by Irish immigrants Catherine and Patrick O’Leary. By the time firefighters arrived to the scene, gale-force winds were fanning the flames with astonishing speed. Over the next 30 hours, Chicago would battle a raging inferno more destructive than any ever faced by an American city. But from the ashes would also come rebirth—a transformation that would turn Chicago into a modern metropolis.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 October 8th, 1871 in Chicago, Illinois, around 9 o'clock at night. A hot, dry wind blows prairie dust down the wooden sidewalks of your west side neighborhood. You're walking home after a long day at your job as a cart driver, past wooden barns and little houses with tar paper roofs. Your neighbors are mostly Irish immigrants, and their homes are as small as the humble cottages they left behind in the old country, just more closely packed together. You are almost home, but your wooden leg is killing you. You stop and lean back against a fence to adjust it. From a nearby porch, you hear

a neighbor call out. Evening, Sullivan. Another scorcher today, huh? Sure was. Dry as a tinderbox. How long has it been since we had some rain? Too long. Across the street, other neighbors are having a party. You watch through the window as they dance a jig. The man who called out to you exhales cigar smoke with a disapproving sigh. Mrs. O'Leary won't like all that carrying on. She has to get up to milk her cows in a few hours.

The dry, hot wind picks up, carrying dust, and with it, a scent. Hey, do you smell that? It's an acrid odor, like the embers of a campfire. And then something catches your eye, a flicker of light in the O'Leary barn next door. Your heart pounds as you realize it's a flame. Fire! Fire, fire! You run toward the barn as fast as your wooden leg can carry you. Your neighbor jumps down from his porch and follows, shouting as he runs. Help! Fire! Fire in the O'Leary barn! You swing open the barn door together, instantly feeling a blast of heat.

You look up and see the blaze ripping through the hayloft. Jesus, no saving this. Looks to me it's going to burn up in minutes. Now we have to do something. In one stall, a startled horse is rearing up on its hind legs. To your left, four cows and a calf struggle against the rope ties. Come here, hurry. Untie the cows. The animal's eyes are wide with fear. You pat the calf, trying to calm it down. Oh, it's okay, okay.

I'm going to get you out of here. Your fingers tremble as you fumble with the knot. This one won't budge. Your neighbor is pulling at the lead rope of one of the cows, but the frightened animal won't move. Finally, you manage to untie the calf. Come on, come on, quickly now, come on. Choking on the thick black smoke that is filling the barn,

you follow your neighbor toward the door, dragging the calf behind you. You're barely out before the whole roof of the barn is engulfed in flames. Oh, no, no, we're not going back. Flames are too strong. I'm going to wake the O'Leary's. Turn around and see that he's right. The barn is burning up with a speed like nothing you've seen before. And on a night as dry and windy

as this one, there's no telling how far it will spread. From Wondery comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a witness? Paul can do it. I'm your host, Brandon Jinks Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, where aspiring entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. If the audience liked the product, it gets them in front of our panel of experts. Gwyneth Paltrow. Anthony Anderson.

Tabitha Brown. Tony Hawk. Oh, my God. Buy It Now. Stream free on Freeview and Prime Video. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. On our show, we take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles, and our dreams.

We'll put you in the shoes of everyday citizens as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now. In October 1871, Chicago was a city on the rise, a bustling hub for industry, transportation, and agriculture. It seemed that nothing could stand in the way of its explosive growth, but Chicago was a city made of wood, and that fall a severe drought had turned it into a tinderbox. On the night of October 8th, a fire broke out on Chicago's west side, in a barn owned by Irish immigrants Patrick and Catherine O'Leary. Soon, strong prairie winds spread the blaze with astonishing speed and ferocity. By the time firefighters reached the scene, it was clear that this was no ordinary fire. Over the next thirty hours, a relentless inferno swept through the heart of the city.

What became known as the Great Chicago Fire left 300 dead and one-third of the city homeless. It was the worst disaster any American city had ever faced. But from the ashes of ruin came an extraordinary recovery and rebirth, transforming Chicago into a modern metropolis. This is Episode 1. We are going to have a burn. In 1871, Chicago was the fastest-growing city in the world. What was once a desolate frontier outpost had quickly become one of America's most important cities and the largest in the West. Chicago was ideally situated between the Great cities and the largest in the West. Chicago was ideally

situated between the Great Lakes and the Mississippi River, making it a critical center for industry, transportation, and farming. And as a hub for America's major railroads, it formed the crossroads between the East and the West. By the mid-19th century, more railroads converged in Chicago than any other city in the world. Every day, tons of grain, coal, livestock, and lumber from the country's interior flowed through Chicago to eastern markets. And from the east came thousands of new residents, rich families and poor immigrants alike, attracted to the city's bustling energy and economic vitality.

Elegant hotels and department stores rose up alongside muddy stockyards and garbage-strewn slums. By 1871, Chicago was home to more than 300,000 people, nearly half of them foreign-born. But beneath a city's spectacular growth lay a hidden danger. Chicago's rapid development was made possible by densely packed, haphazard wood construction. Wood buildings could be erected quickly and cheaply. There were some 40,000 of them in the city, two-thirds of all the city's buildings. Chicago's poorer neighborhoods were crammed with wood cottages and barns full of hay, coal, and wood shavings. Miles of sidewalks and streets were laid with wood blocks. Even downtown's ornate brick, stone, and marble buildings amounted to little more than flimsy facades masking rickety wood frames.

Chicago also boasted the world's largest lumberyard. All along the Chicago River lay towering stacks of white pine from northern forests waiting to be shipped to market. They were squeezed alongside grain elevators, furniture factories, turpentine and paint plants, and massive warehouses packed with lumber and coal. But the danger was no secret to Chicago's residents. In September of 1871, the Chicago Tribune warned that the city's downtown buildings amounted to fire traps pleasing to the eye

that were little more than shams and shingles. But there were hardly any fire codes regulating construction, and the few rules that did exist had little teeth. The city government had barred flammable building materials from some areas, calling them fire zones, but the ordinances were rarely enforced. Builders ignored regulations, and government officials looked the other way in their rush for speed and growth. So rather than pay for quality construction, landlords counted on insurance policies to save them from future fire-related losses. But there was one organization that knew better than anyone about the looming danger. Chicago's fire department was on the front line, and its firefighters knew that unless something was done soon, the city would remain dangerously vulnerable.

Imagine it's September 1871. You've served as Chicago's chief fire marshal for three years. Today, you're meeting with one of the city aldermen to make your case for stronger fire prevention measures for what feels like the hundredth time. You take a deep breath and knock on the door. Yeah, come in. Good afternoon, sir. The alderman looks up briefly from a stack of papers on his desk and waves you in. Ah, Robert, have a seat, please. I'm afraid I don't have much time, though, today. This won't take long. You pull out a chair and sit down heavily. Removing a handkerchief from your pocket, you wipe the sweat beating on your temple. The alderman gives you a knowing smile. It is hot out there, isn't it? My wife won't stop complaining

about the state of her garden. Well, anyways, what can I do for you? Well, sir, I think it's fair to say that it's plain to all that the city building regulations need an overhaul. We must form a building inspection bureau and put an end to all the shoddy wood construction. All the hotels and big buildings downtown should have metal roofs. I've provided your office with a detailed list of recommendations. I'm hoping you've seen them. Oh, sure, sure. Yeah, they're around here somewhere, but I'm afraid that's not in the cards for this year's budget.

Well, if you have read my report, you would know that this city suffered nearly 700 fires last year. That's two and a half million dollars in property damage. If you spend the money now, I promise you, you will save money down the line. This city is little more than a tinderbox waiting to be lit. Ah, fires happen. It's natural. This city was built on a prairie, and prairies burn. You shake your head in frustration. All the more reason to shore up our defenses. I was hoping we could talk equipment and manpower. The alderman raises an eyebrow. Okay, go on. I need more fire hydrants and larger water mains. I need fireboats patrolling the river. And hell, I need more muscle. My men

are overworked. There's less than 200 of us covering 36 square miles, and that's not enough. Look, I hear you. But all that costs money, and I'm not putting any more burden on the taxpayers. Higher taxes and stricter building regulations will stifle growth. And that's not what I was elected to do. Well, sir, there won't be much business left to grow once a fire tears through this city. It's barely rained in months. Ask your wife. Yeah, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, Robert. The alderman shrugs and looks back at his papers,

a clear signal for you to leave. As you do, you slam the door, anger coursing through your body as you tear off down the hallway. Deep down, you never expected to get anywhere, but still, a small part of you hoped that this time would be different. You can't understand why they won't let you do the job they hired you for. But more than anything, you fear you're running out of time to make the changes this city desperately needs. By 1871, Chicago's Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams had been fighting fires for 20 years. Born in Canada, Williams was a tall 45-year-old with a heavy black beard and mustache. He was as tenacious in battling flames as he was fighting with city officials for more resources.

Williams knew that 185 firefighters and 17 horse-drawn steam engines were simply not enough to defend such a large and fire-prone city. He wanted more men and more funding, and he also recommended that the city create a bureau to regulate construction. But Chicago officials repeatedly denied his requests. They were reluctant to impose any regulations or taxes that might slow economic growth. Chicago had already devoted enormous sums to building the infrastructure and public works to sustain the expanding city. Local leaders cared more about short-term business growth than long-term safety. But in the fall of 1871, severely dry weather created the perfect conditions for a spark to turn into an inferno. It had been one of the driest summers on record. Between Independence Day and early October, Chicago received a mere inch and a half of rain, causing a punishing

drought. Strong winds buffeted the city from the southwestern prairies. Tar roofs bubbled in the summer sun. And as summer turned into fall, piles of brown and brittle leaves blanketed the ground. Many Chicago residents had stockpiled extra wood and kerosene in anticipation of winter, which they stored in pine sheds or stacked alongside wood fences bounding their properties. But winter didn't look like it was coming. Instead, the heat wave persisted into October, with temperatures hovering over 80 degrees. The dry, windy conditions stoked fires. In the first seven days of October, 28 blazes burst through the city. The courthouse bell rang out constantly, signaling the alarm far and wide. As a result, Chicago's firefighters were exhausted

and overworked. The city had denied Chief Williams' request for additional fire prevention measures, and short-staffed, he knew his best strategy was speed. He declared that the only secret in putting out fires was to strike it before it gets the start of you. His men rushed from one fire to another, barely putting out one blaze before they were sent to battle the next. They had little time to sleep, let alone repair damaged equipment. And as fires raged through the city on a daily basis in October, Chicagoans were consumed by a growing dread that a devastating catastrophe awaited them.

On the evening of Saturday, October 7th, Chicago's understaffed and overworked fire department faced its greatest test yet, battling a massive blaze just south of the downtown business district. The fire began in a lumber mill full of wood and sawdust, and the flames quickly jumped to the cardboard box factory next door. Before long, the fire burned through four entire city blocks. Thousands of Chicagoans took to the streets to watch as the flames devoured nearly every building in their wake, costing an estimated $750,000 in damages, $16 million in today's money. Finally, after 17 long hours, weary firefighters brought the blaze under control. The next day, on Sunday, October 8th, the Chicago Tribune published special coverage of the fire. It issued a prophetic warning, telling its readers,

The absence of rain for three weeks has left everything in so flammable a condition that a spark might set a fire which would sweep from end to end of the city. The newspaper was closer to the truth than it imagined. That Sunday edition would be the last to ever be printed from those offices. Chief Williams had stayed up all night battling the lumber mill fire. He awoke from a needed nap that Sunday afternoon and rushed to assess the condition of his department. About one-third of his force was out of commission, and the rest were barely upright. Many were injured, their eyelids swollen shut, their lungs seared from

smoke inhalation. Williams learned that several hoses had burst, protective gear had been burned and blackened, and two steam engines were damaged. The Chicago Fire Department was badly weakened, and Williams knew it. Yet he had a nagging fear that the worst was still to come, telling his driver, we are going to have a burn. I can feel it in my bones. That evening, Williams crawled back into bed to try and catch a few more hours of fitful rest. He set out his coat, helmet, and boots so he could be ready to don them at a moment's notice. As he lay down to sleep, a strong, hot wind was blowing from the prairies southwest of the city. It was heading in the direction of the wooden shanties and lumber mills on Chicago's west side. The conditions were ripe for disaster.

The only thing missing was a spark, and just as Williams went to sleep, flames broke out in the O'Leary barn. Soon, what began as a small blaze would grow into the most destructive fire to ever hit an American city. 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. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that defined their journey, and the ideas that transformed the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life. Taking the name Robert Maxwell,

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Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. On the night of Sunday, October 8th, 1871, a small fire broke out in an immigrant neighborhood in Chicago's West Side. The branches of the Chicago River split the city into three sections, the North Side, the South Side, and the West Side. The North Side contained the city's

finest mansions, as well as a large working-class German immigrant community. The South Side encompassed the main business district, with hotels, theaters, and offices, as well as Chicago's crime-ridden slums. And the West Side was home to several working-class neighborhoods. Many of the city's poor immigrant families lived there in densely packed wooden cottages, not far from lumber yards, planing mills, and furniture factories. It was on the West Side, just southwest of the city's business district, that Irish Catholic immigrants Catherine and Patrick O'Leary lived with their five children. The O'Leary's had married before immigrating to America in 1845,

just as a potato famine began to ravage the Irish countryside. Patrick O'Leary was a burly Civil War veteran who earned $2 a day as an unskilled laborer. His wife Catherine was tall and stout. She worked hard running a successful dairy business, selling milk door-to-door in her neighborhood. The family shared two rooms in the back section of a divided wooden cottage on DeKoven Street. They rented the front portion to another family. The house was little more than a rickety shanty, covered with white pine shingles and roofed with tar paper. Beside their home was a wooden barn where Mrs. O'Leary kept five cows and a horse,

her entire livelihood. On Saturday, October 7th, she'd received a delivery for two tons of hay for her animals. She had also recently stockpiled wood shavings and coal in preparation for winter. Mrs. O'Leary went to bed early on Sunday night, around eight o'clock. She was nursing a sore foot and she knew she would have to rise before dawn to milk her cows. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of fiddle music from the home of the O'Leary's tenants, who were throwing a party to celebrate the arrival of a visiting relative. About an hour later, their neighbor, Daniel Sullivan, sat down on the wooden sidewalk across the street, pausing to rest and adjust his wooden leg.

Sullivan was a 26-year-old cart driver who had lost his leg in a railroad accident. As he sat on the sidewalk, he noticed that the lights were out in the O'Leary's home, but something caught his eye in the barn next door. A blaze of fire was shooting up the side of the building. Terrified at what he was seeing, Sullivan scrambled up off the sidewalk, yelling fire as he ran for the flaming barn. As Sullivan approached it, he was enveloped by a blistering heat. He managed to save a calf, but it was too late to control the flames. As the fire grew, neighbors streamed out of their homes. One of them ran into the O'Leary's house and woke up Patrick O'Leary, who jumped out of bed, opened the door, and saw his barn ablaze. Running toward the barn, he screamed out to his wife,

Kate, the barn is afire. Then their house started to smoke, and Mrs. O'Leary and her children woke up and ran outside. Mr. O'Leary joined his neighbors in throwing buckets of water onto the cottage. His wife ran for the barn, hoping to save the wagon parked inside it. But the scorching heat was too strong. Soon the wagon, a shed, and another barn caught fire. Flames traveled along a wooden fence, and a neighbor's house began to burn. Back in the O'Leary's barn, the remaining cows and horse became the first casualties of the fire. As more and more houses on DeKoven Street caught fire, panicked residents filled buckets from fire hydrants, trying to douse the flames.

But the wind was too strong, and the blaze was quickly growing beyond control. The Great Chicago Fire had found its spark. For all its shortcomings, Chicago's fire department did boast a state-of-the-art signal system. It was one of the few advancement officials were willing to grant, knowing that speed was essential to containing fires. The city had recently installed a network of 172 numbered alarm boxes,

which were distributed in homes and businesses throughout the West, South, and North sides. The keys for these alarm boxes were entrusted to store owners and other citizens deemed responsible. When a fire broke out, someone needed to unlock one of the boxes and pull a switch. That would send an electric signal to the telegraph operator stationed in the courthouse downtown. After receiving the signal, the operator would alert the fire engine companies nearest to the blaze. Then they would send up another electric signal to ring the 11,000-pound bell on the courthouse roof once for a small fire, twice for a larger fire, and three times for a

blaze that was out of control. This last alarm would summon every engine company in Chicago to the scene. The warning system was the city's last, best hope of averting disaster. Ten minutes after the O'Leary's barn went up in flames, one of their neighbors, a blacksmith named William Lee, sprinted out of his house and raced toward a nearby pharmacy. He begged the pharmacist for the key to the alarm box, desperate to pull the lever that would alert the fire department. But the pharmacist was cautious about sounding false alarms. He refused Lee, insisting that a fire engine had already just gone past. Lee did not waste time arguing with the pharmacist. He had his family to think about.

Terrified for the lives of his wife and toddler, he ran home and took them to an empty lot away from the flames. But that wasn't the only error that would doom the city. Across the river, high up on the roof of the Chicago courthouse, stood a watchman who was scanning the city's skyline, looking for signs of the city's next fire. Imagine it's about nine o'clock at night. You're standing on the roof of Chicago's courthouse, a dry wind whipping your face. Nights like these make your eyes smart, but you keep them open, squinting toward the horizon.

Looking through your spyglass, you spot flames on the west side of the city. You do some quick calculations and make your way towards the voice box. William, we've got one. Looks like it's near Canalport Avenue and Halstead Street. Box 342. Are you sure? Could be embers from last night's fire. No, this is a new one. Sound the alarm. Box 342. Roger that. Signaling box 342. Thanks. It's not a large one yet. One ring should do it. I'll send the signal up. You return to your post and train your spyglass once more on the flames to the southwest. You've only been gone a few moments, but the flames already appear much brighter.

Normally, it takes a quarter hour for a fire to grow like that. You start to feel uneasy. Then down below, the haze clears. The wind must be shifting, and it's then that you realize that you've miscalculated. That's not Halstead Street at all. The firefighters are heading in the wrong direction. You sprint back toward the voice box. Hey, William, William, do you hear me? I screwed up. It's not Box 342. It's 319.

I repeat, 319. You need to issue a new alarm. That'll just confuse the fire companies. But don't worry. They'll pass the fire by 319 on their way to 342. Damn it, William, you can't see as well as I can from up here. This thing is already getting out of hand. Do what I say. Strike the alarm for box 319. No, I won't do it. The fire department's already spread too thin. I'm not sending out another company. You slam down the receiver, furious at your co-worker. You know you're the first line of defense of stopping fires in Chicago, and you're terrified that with your mistake, you've just led your city to ruin. Beyond the signal system, the fire department had a more old-fashioned method for detecting fires.

On the night of October 8th, a watchman named Matthias Schaefer was stationed on the courthouse roof. When he spotted the flames from the O'Leary's barn, he alerted the downstairs operator, William Brown, to signal the nearest engine company at Box 342. But Schaefer had mislocated the fire

by about a mile. He quickly realized his mistake and instructed Brown to alert the fire company. But Brown stubbornly refused, believing the change would just confuse the fire department. His obstinacy would prove catastrophic. The Box 342 alarm alerted fire engines a mile from the O'Leary barn. The exhausted and injured firefighters took off, speeding toward the wrong location. Meanwhile, the fire engines closest to DeKoven Street stayed put, oblivious

to the fire spreading nearby. And as they dawdled, the fire continued to rage through the dense west side neighborhood, carried by strong winds from the southwest. Luckily, one fire company that received the incorrect alarm ignored the signal, deciding instead to follow the flames themselves. At about 9.30 p.m., firefighters from the Little Giant Company rushed their steam engine to the blaze on DeKoven Street. Once they arrived, desperate neighbors rushed out to help them hook up their hoses. Soon, the Little Giant Company was joined by a handful of nearby engine companies, but the firefighters arrived much too late to slow the fire's spread.

They were no match for the fast-growing blaze. The homes on the next street over were already starting to smolder. Neighbors hauled their belongings out into the street, fearing their homes would not survive the night. And soon, it looked like the fire would devour every structure it crossed, threatening to turn the entire neighbourhood to ash. 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.

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to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery+. Join Wondery in the Wondery Plus in the Wondery app Apple Podcasts or Spotify how did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today who created that bottle of red sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge

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Nintendo never fires anyone, ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. When the courthouse operator struck box 342 in error, it sent a signal to the private alarm installed in the chief fire marshal's bedroom. Robert Williams jumped out of bed, threw on his uniform, and sprinted off in the wrong direction. After realizing the error, Williams and his crew finally arrived at the O'Leary's home on DeKoven Street at about 9.45, an hour after the barn first ignited. Firefighters were operating three steam engines and spraying

jets of water onto the flames. It didn't take long for Williams to realize this was no one-alarm fire. So he ordered one of his men to go strike the alarm signaling a two-alarm fire, hoping to bring more crews to the scene. But the intensity of the flames was taking its toll. The searing heat was turning the water from their hoses into steam. The firefighters' uniforms were scorched, their leather helmets twisted out of shape. The men could barely breathe with the fire sucking the oxygen out of the air.

Williams cried out, Hang on to her, boys. She's ganging on us. Ten minutes later, Williams ordered a three-alarm signal to call out the rest of the city's depleted fire department. But the multiple delays in the alarms that night had already cost them crucial ground, and before long, new problems emerged that would make it

impossible for the firefighters to catch up. Residents fleeing the inferno streamed out of their houses with all the possessions they could carry. They piled blankets, furnitures, and mattresses out into the streets, blocking the fire engines and offering even more kindling for the flames. Houses were starting to smolder on Taylor Street, which ran parallel to DeKoven Street, one block to the north. Williams knew that if they could save Taylor Street from the flames,

they might have a chance at containing the fire. He told his men to douse the Taylor Street homes with water, but as one of the firefighters sprinted into the street and aimed a hose, the jet of water sputtered to a halt. A steam engine on DeKoven Street was already using all the water. Another steam engine was stymied by a broken pump. An engineer swung a hammer at the malfunctioning equipment

and the water gushed out once again. But the delay proved critical. Five houses on Taylor Street had burst into flames. The firefighters fought on, but it was clear they were losing the battle. The men could barely see what they were doing through the clouds of black smoke. Several damaged hoses burst, and the firefighters desperately tried to plug the holes by wrapping blankets around them. Reflecting on the horrors of the night, Williams later said, "'Twas like hell,

and the firemen's eyes were red with the dust and fire, so that many of them were most blind. The hair was scorched off their faces, and they stuck to their machines like bulldogs and worked them till they couldn't stand it any longer." Williams himself tried to stay calm. He ordered the five steam engines on site to surround the fire,

but they were no match for the scorching heat and blistering, bone-dry wind. As the fire surged, temperatures reached 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit, hot enough to melt steel. And the wind was blowing 30 miles an hour that night. Together, the gusts and extraordinary temperatures created convection whirls known as fire devils. These superheated columns of air rose up from the ground, twisting like tornadoes as they sucked in the cooler air from above.

The fire devils ripped the roofs off buildings and flung smoldering debris hundreds of feet into the air. These chunks of burning material rained down on the west side and caused the flames to surge north. Soon, the fire had traveled six blocks. At ten o'clock, a piece of this burning debris hit the 140-foot-tall wooden steeple of St. Paul's Catholic Church, five blocks north of the O'Leary's barn. Chief Williams knew that if the steeple burned, the fire would carry even further afield. He ordered his men to scramble up a ladder to the steeple with their hoses. They extinguished the flames, but just as they came back down, the ladder fell and broke into pieces. And then the flames reappeared, but there was nothing they

could do without their ladder. They tried to spray water from the streets, but the church had become too hot for the firefighters to get close. Moments later, the roof came crashing down. As burning embers the size of baseballs showered the west side, Williams ran into a city official. He confessed defeat, apologizing, It's getting ahead of me in spite of all I can do. It's just driving me along. More flaming debris took to the wind and blew north and east, descending on the furniture factories, warehouses, and lumber yards that lined the Chicago River. These acres of wood kindling fed the raging inferno as it surged on, devouring everything in its path. Imagine it's the night of October 8th, 1871.

You're the owner of two large buildings on Chicago's west side. Your one and a half acre property includes two furniture factories, a shingle mill, and a box factory. But tonight, everything you've ever worked for is under threat. The fire that broke out less than two hours ago is racing toward you. You're determined to do something to protect your property and your livelihood. Hey, come here. Help me carry out these papers. If there's one thing I save, it better be my insurance records. Your assistant grabs the stack of documents and follows you out the door. But when he sees flames glowing on the horizon, he shoves the papers in your arms and takes off running. You run out into the street

and flag down a young firefighter busy hooking up a pump in front of your mill. Hey, hey, please, please, I beg of you. Help me save my mills. I've got boards and wood shingles stacked 25 feet high in there. I'll give you a thousand dollars to save them. The firefighter shakes his head and points at the wall of fire raging just a couple blocks west. Might as well offer a million, buddy. I can't stop it. No, please, you have to try. I promise you it's not just me suffering the loss. There are chemicals in there, too. If they catch, the fire is going to spread throughout the entire south side. Oh, God.

Well, then you better give me a hand with this. You run to help him screw a hose into the hydrant. All right, we'll try to drench everything, prevent it from burning. I'll take this end closer up. You stay back there. Ready? You do what you're told, grabbing onto the hose as the firefighter hits your warehouse with a stream of water. But before the water can hit the roof, it seems to evaporate into the sky. How's it going up there? These buildings are just too damn big. Just then, you look up and see crimson red debris

showering the roof of the mills. Tongues of flame are licking across the roof of the building closest to you. Oh, dear God. No. No, no, no. Hey, buddy, this isn't working. We gotta go. The firefighter abandons his efforts and races back toward you. You stare up at the burning cinders dotting the night sky.

There's nothing more you can do to save your mills. So now, it's time to save your life. As burning debris rained down on the mills and furniture factories on the western banks of the Chicago River, firefighters tried to stop the flames, but nothing worked. One of the men asked Chief Williams what to do next. At a loss, he replied, God only knows. The fire had become an inferno that extended across 20 blocks. Williams held out hope that the river and the burned-out area from the night before would break the fire. Across the river, residents on the city's south side watched the conflagration in awe. Whiskey flowed freely as they gazed at the breathtaking spectacle to their west.

The party grew so rowdy that a fireman turned his hose on the crowds. Southsiders felt safe, certain that the fire could not possibly cross a river. But as a wall of flames engulfed the mills and factories on the banks, smoldering debris continued to swirl through the air, some soaring as high as 500 feet into the night sky. The flaming hurricanes were speeding east, but the city's relentless industrial growth had laid a trap in the river. The water was filled with oil and industrial chemicals, and rather than breaking the fire, it spread it. Just before midnight, the fire leapt the river and reached the south side. Flaming debris landed on a roof of a stable, then hit a gasworks. Soon, the fire would tear through the heart of the city, and as the night wore on, the flames would wreak a devastating path of destruction.

Suddenly, nowhere in Chicago was safe. From Wondering, this is episode one of The Great Chicago Fire from American History Tellers. On the next episode, a colossal wall of flames incinerates downtown Chicago, speeding toward the waterworks, the last link in the city's defense. And as the city courthouse burns,

Chicago's mayor leaps into desperate action while terrified residents flee for their lives. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, edited by Dorian Marina. Our senior producer is Andy

Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. To be continued... things about Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula. We'll reveal how author Bram Stoker raided ancient folklore, exploited Victorian fears around sex, science, and religion, and how even today we remain enthralled to his strange creatures of the night.

You can binge all episodes of The Real History of Dracula exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus and The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.