My old friend, John Quigg, once foreman of the old Red Gal or Poultice Hose, No. 47, Mechanics’ Hose Company, the pet of the Eleventh ward, was in his glory all last week around Lewis street and in the neighborhood of the old bell. John and his 20 years’ chum, Moynehan, were all smiles and shirt-collar, and they had as many stories to tell of old times as there were people to listen to ‘em.
The very mention of his old hose company’s name made Quigg tremble with pleasure, as if he was a young girl gettin’ her first proposal. And on bell day, as last Tuesday was called, in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of the old bell, John and his chum kept Christmas, New Year’s, Thanksgiving, and Fourth of July all at once.
The old Red Gal was really a famous institution in her day. To belong to old 47 Mechanics’ Hose was to be a part of a big thing. She was the fastest hose company on the East side, and passed everythin’ on her way to a fire-plug.
Frank Boole, in his early and best days, when he was a jolly and a skillful shipwright, was one of 47’s boys. At first Boole was as interested in his fire matters as any other man, but pretty soon he got dabblin’ in politics and gave 47 the go by, and then 47 went back on him. The members had a meetin’ and expelled him for not attendin’ to his fire dues or duties. Boole didn’t like this sort of thing, and protested, and then Johnny Quigg defended the action of his associates, and took Frank to task.
“You have not turned out to a fire with the machine for six months. You know you haven’t,” said Quigg to Boole.
“Yes, I have,” said Boole to Quigg: “I turned out to one fire.”
“Where was that fire? I would like to know,” asked Quigg.
“Why, right next door to me,” answered Boole, with a wink; “the very next house to mine. I had to turn out then.”
But even turnin’ out to this one fire didn’t save him, and Frank Boole ceased to be a member of old 47.
Dan Kelly, who is now Brother Bonaventure, over at the monastery in Hoboken, was one of 47’s boys, and a mighty lively one, till he joined the church; and Tom Robinson, the king of the mechanics of the ward, though a very quiet, hard-workin’ man, always took the head of the rope, and kept it. Harry Van Benschoten, “the father of the old gang,” was another member in good standin’, and took the utmost interest in all matters pertainin’ to the company.
Old 47 hose wasn’t one of the fightin’ companies but one of the passin’ companies. Its members could fight when they had to, and always held their own, but passin’ was their strong point. They always made it a point of honor to pass every other company on the way to a fire. They could show their heels to any company on the East side, and always got to the hydrant first.
Once they raced with a hook and ladder truck. Now a truck was a bad thing to pass, because it was so big and could be turned so as to take up the whole width of a street almost, so that nothin’ could pass it without, as it were, passin’ through it. But, by dint of runnin’ along on the sidewalk, No. 47 passed. Then the truck complained to the Fire and Water Committee of the Board of Alderman and No. 47 was hauled up for violatin’ the ordinance forbiddin’ an engine or hose company to occupy the sidewalk. A very plain case was made out against 47, and there would have been trouble if the assistant foreman hadn’t stepped forward, made a scapegoat of himself and taken all the entire company’s blame on his own shoulders. The fire committee (with whom 47 was very popular for the good work at fires it was always doin’) seein’ the dodge, accepted the sacrifice, and instead of suspending the whole company from service, only suspended for thirty days the assistant foreman, who became from that moment the most popular man in the company, next to Tom Quigg himself.
Once there was an attempt on the part of a few to oust Quigg, and there was a very excitin’ time about the election that ensued. But John was a good candidate and understood his little biz. He determined that all his friends should stick by him, or if they didn’t, why that he should know they didn’t, and they should know that he knew they didn’t. So he got some blue tickets printed in a peculiar kind of way, with each of his friend’s names printed on each ticket, one name on each, in a fashion that was a close secret between the printer and himself. These tickets he kept back till the last moment, and then he handed each of his professed friends his particular ticket. Only one friend went back on him, all the rest voted just as they had said they would, each one’s ticket was found all right, and so John Quigg found himself elected foreman once more, and knew just who his friends were, too, which is not the case with every candidate.
But the best member, after all, of old 47 went to the fire on four legs. He was a big Newfoundland dog, and his name was Major. There was a wonderful deal of intelligence and downright common sense about Major. He was smart enough to know what was necessary, and he was still smarter enough not to care to know, or to pay attention to, what wasn’t necessary.
The old bell used to ring for fires, as well as for certain hours, and no matter how many strokes the bell might strike, if it didn’t strike exactly five or exactly six, showing the fire was in the district, Major wouldn’t pay any more heed than if it wasn’t ringing at all. His manner would say, as plain as any dog’s manner could say, “Not this fire, some other fire.” But if it struck exactly five for exactly six, then up would start Major, all ready for the fire, and the readiest of the whole lot, fairly wild with impatient.
Once one of the boys, a little worse for liquor, fell asleep right by the hose carriage. The bell pealed out six; the dog got ready; the boys turned out; everybody was wide awake but the too-fuddled member who still dozed. What did Major do but seize the sleeper with his teeth as if to carry him to the fire. Findin’ he couldn’t succeed in his undertakin’, Major gave the chap a hearty shakin’, and then ran on “wid der machine.”
Major at last died of too much water. He got caught in the mud once, out in Jersey somewhere (after he had passed out of No. 47’s hands), and stuck there. The tide comin’ up, he was drowned before he could be rescued. And this fire-dog who died of too much water can be seen to-day stuffed, but lookin’ as natural as life, in a glass case, which is often visited.
Daddy Lambert who is still livin’, I believe, at Summit, New Jersey, was an old member of 47, and was a great breeder and fighter of game cocks. He attended all the pits and cockin’ mains, and often, after a cock fight, the day before, he would bring his fowl home and leave ‘em in a barrel, to get well of their cuts and sores; but while he was at work, durin’ the day, the boys who weren’t at work would get hold of Daddy’s barrels, which were kept in the back of the hose-house, would let loose his cocks and have a main all to ‘emselves. When Daddy would come to the hose-house, after his work, of course, he would find his birds all right in their barrels; but, of course, he would find ‘em more cut and sore than when he left ‘em, and for the life of him Daddy couldn’t understand it, and to this day I believe that he doesn’t understand it yet.
Old 39 Hose (Star Hose) was the great rival of old 47. Ex-Alderman Wesley Smith was the great man of that company, and a favorite foreman. It lay on Tenth street near Avenue D. This company had one hundred and seventeen members on its roll call, and made a big brag of the fact, for it was a fact. Although, to tell the truth, twenty-one of the one hundred and seventeen members had left the district, and forty more had left the world altogether, bein’ dead and buried; still the roll call went on all the same.
All the members of 47 were shipwrights, for there were such things as American ships in those days built by American mechanics. Twenty ships used to be on the stocks at one time. Twelve thousand men worked at ship buildin’ in the city, between Grand and Eighteenth streets, on the East side. When the old bell of the the Eleventh ward was in its prime, the streets were almost impassable for the crowds of shipwrights goin’ to work or home. For fifty years or so, up to the end of the Civil War, shipbuildin’ flourished, but since then it has been as dead as the war itself, and all the old shipwrights are scattered; some are workin’ for John Roach, some are longshoremen now, some have gone to Yankee land or Jersey. But there are no more ships built, and the big days of the Eleventh ward are passed.
For many years shipwrights contended with their employers for a regular schedule of wages and hours. The wages question got settled, or, rather, settled itself, but the hours question still vexed both sides. At last it was agreed that ten hours should constitute a day’s work, and the big bell of the Eleventh ward rang out its first peal. Only five of the shipwrights who heard that first peal are known to be livin’ now, and Mr. McCoy, who rang the bell, is dead.
Only once in all these years has the old bell been rung on the wrong hour. Then it rung at eleven o’clock instead of twelve, noon, and caused no end of trouble throughout the district. The housewives had grown into the habit of havin’ their dinners ready by the stroke of twelve; so now they hurried up the mid-day meal, wonderin’ first what made ‘em so behindhand ‘emselves with their preparations that day, and then wonderin’ still more why the men didn’t come home to get their meals. In fact, the men had all started to get their dinners, but those in charge, lookin’ at their watches and seein’ it was some mistake, had detained ‘em till the noon hour actually came, when by that time their dinners were, of course, all cold. You see, when people prepare and eat their dinners on time, the first and most important thing is that the time of the women preparin’ and the men eatin’ should agree. But in this case, thanks to the bell-ringer’s mistake, there was just the difference of an hour between dinner gotten and dinner eaten, which was just the difference of a cold dinner.
But spite of this one false alarm the people in the Eleventh ward got so attached to that bell that once when it was proposed to remove it for some reason or other, the women took hold of the matter in hand, and told the men that if they didn’t fight for it, why the women would. And they meant it, too; they got all the broomhandles and hot water ready, and if there had been any attempt to remove the old bell, why there would have been some scalds, and some broken brooms and heads.
Almost every old man in the Eleventh ward has had his hand at ringin’ the old bell: Ben Dean; James Hardey; George Reeves; George Cornell; Frank Bruce, foreman of the old Bunker Hill Engine; Mike Herman, of Marvin Hose No. 4; Andrew Beers; Johnny Ness; Lorenzo Cuddy and other old timers who took in all the annual balls at Turn Hall regular every year.
Many of the old firemen are hale and hearty still; but the most celebrated of ‘em all has gone. I mean Axe-handle Smith, who was a character; the George Francis Train and Count Joannes of the Eleventh ward. He came from down East, and made axe handles for a livin’ in the days when shipbuildin’ tools and workmen were in great demand. Smith could make noise as well as axe handles, and “shouted” all the time. He had a great “call” at “preaching” and he called very loud at it–so loud you could hear him from a block off.
He loved to hear the sound of his own voice, and preached everythin’ under the sun. He thought shipbuildin’ the first business in the world and prophesied that New York would become the shipbuilding centre of the universe, on which prediction he was “out” as much as if he was a weather prophet.
He had a wife and family, this Axe-handle Smith, and supported ‘em by hard work, but his run was his talkin’. He would talk to himself, or to an axe handle if he couldn’t get anythin’ better. He died of old age and poverty at last; but he died, as he lived, talkin’.
[Editor’s notes: The above column uses information from George W. Sheldon’s The Story of the Volunteer Fire Department of the City of New York, Harper & Brothers, 1882; but expands on that source.]
