The First Family of Knoxville's Smoke Eaters

David Newman, 1897
McClung Digital Collection

Fighting fires and saving lives creates a close bond between firefighters. The fire department is itself a family. And often their own family members become firefighters. Most American fire departments include second, third, fourth, and so on generations of firefighters. That family tradition of firefighting is as alive today among Knoxville's smoke eaters as it was more than a century ago. A glance at the roster of its early twentieth century firefighters included in the diaries of Samuel Beckett Boyd II (Knoxville Fire Department Chief, 1900-1929), which are held in the Jack Lewis Collection at the McClung Historical Collection inside the East Tennessee History Center, reveals a department in which firefighting was already a family profession with father-son duos, brothers and cousins serving, and so on by the early 1900s.

 

The first family of Knoxville's professional firefighters begins with the Newmans. Born in Reidsville, North Carolina in 1833, David Newman, the family patriarch, came to Knoxville as a blacksmith and wagon maker. However, his young wife died in 1863, leaving him a widower with a young daughter (Mary). He quickly remarried that same year to a woman named Patience Eliza Martin. Together they had seven children--four daughters and three sons. Like most residents of Knoxville, Newman answered the fire alarm when the town's bell tolled.  But he soon joined one of the antebellum town's volunteer fire companies in 1854. A half century later, his two youngest sons (Rufus Bearden & James Rodgers Newman) were veterans of the department and a grandson (Rufus B. Newman, Jr.) was beginning to take his first steps toward embarking on a career in the family business.

David Newman's family listed in the 1880 Census, pg. 1 (Courtesy of Ancestry.com)
Rufus B. Newman appears second from the bottom of the page.

David Newman's children listed in the 1880 Census, pg. 2 (Courtesy of Ancestry.com)
James Rodgers Newman appears at the top of the page.

As Knoxville entered the boom times of the 1880s and early 1890s, thanks in large part to a new influx of young, ambitious, visionary, and enterprising men seeking to harness the surrounding region's rail connections, labor pool, and abundant natural resources to carve out their respective fortunes, few of the city's residents looked back on its quaint, pre-modern frontier past (most of whom had no direct link to Knoxville's first families). But when the fire-fiend awoke from its slumber and blazed a path through the city, reporters sought out the grizzled, bearded veteran firefighter David Newman for perspective. They often asked Newman to recount the history of Knoxville's "fire laddies" and what it was like to fight fires before the Civil War, in an age when fire was fought by hand rather than steam.


Fountain Fire Company No. 1, ca. 1860 (McClung Historical Digital Collection)

In its antebellum days, Knoxville, like all cities, required all hands on deck to help snuff out a fire. Fire was the responsibility of citizens of all stripes. Thus merchant princes and clerks, professional men and unskilled laborers threw aside whatever they were doing as soon as the fire bell tolled, and rushed to the scene of the fire with two leather buckets. Armed with their buckets, some citizens did their civic duty by participating in the bucket brigade, men passing buckets filled with water to fill the hand fire engine's reservoir, while women passed the empty buckets back to the source of the water. Other men joined teams to pump the hand machines. Newman was often found in the center of the action, vigorously pumping the engine to put out the fire. When the city fathers purchased two new hand fire engines and formally organized new volunteer companies in the 1850s, Newman joined the Fountain Fire Company, No. 1.

 

A rash of fires that erupted in various parts of town in the mid to late 1850s, suspected to be the work of an unknown arsonist, pushed city fathers to begin purchasing modern fire fighting apparatus. By all measures, with these new, much-needed acquisitions, Knoxville's fire fighting capacity was sufficient to protect the burgeoning antebellum town on the eve of the United States Civil War. However, the war derailed the progressive action taken by Knoxville leaders to bolster its fire defenses.  Knoxville's phenomenal postwar growth, spurred by an influx of freed blacks and whites from the surrounding valleys and mountains, required more and more city services. An antebellum town in 1860, which had more than doubled to 5,300 in a span of ten years, quickly matured into a city that boasted 8,682 residents in 1870. Between 1870 and 1900, the city nearly quadrupled to 32,673. The financial well-being of Knoxville constituted the most pressing issue facing its leaders as they struggled to balance the books while attempting to improve streets and provide better street lighting, water, and police and fire protection. The fire department seemed to get shortchanged as immediate postwar monies were allocated in favor of a new city hall and additional policeman to remedy an epidemic of thefts, burglaries, robberies, and murders. This massive ballooning of government spending further increased Knoxville's debt. Consequently, in order to purchase much-needed fire apparatus, city fathers would need to solicit funds from community leaders, just as their antebellum ancestors had done so to better protect the city from the fire-fiend.      

 

Knoxville belatedly entered the horse-drawn era of firefighting with the acquisition of its first steam engine in 1867. The debt-ridden city government was forced to spend money to deal with the threat of fire as their city grew at an alarming rate. Thus city leaders agreed to pay half of the cost of a new steam fire engine if the community could manage to raise the other half. The engine itself, a Silsby rotary steam fire engine built in Seneca Falls, New York, was capable of discharging five hundred pounds of water per minute, cost $5,500. However, the purchase of additional firefighting apparatus and two mules to pull the four thousand pound steamer brought the total cost to $8,750. The new engine was christened the "J.C. Luttrell" after Knoxville's popular mayor, who not only had held the post since 1859, but also proved to be a staunch advocate of improved fire protection. David Newman, designated as a stoker, was tasked with feeding fuel (coal) to the firebox to get the steam up before water could be played on a fire. Among some of the new purchases included in the total cost were new uniforms consisting of red flannel jackets double breasted with black velvet cuffs and collars for the regular firemen. Officers were designated by marks on their left arm. Engineers, the ones with the specialized knowledge trusted to run and manage the expensive steam engines, had a uniform consisting of dark flannel jackets trimmed and made the same as the others. Newman, still a member of the postwar voluntary fire department would soon receive one of these latter uniforms.

 

Following a devastating conflagration in March 1869, the worst fire in the city's history to date, causing more than sixty thousand dollars in damages, Knoxville's leaders made several adjustments to the city's fire department. The various companies were reorganized in 1870, at which point the election of the fire department's officers were to be held on a regular basis (initially every six months), and David Newman was elected first engineer. Newman, a favorite among the firemen and known by city leaders to be a competent and trustworthy engineer to run and manage the city's expensive engine, was regularly reelected without any opposition. 

 

In 1878, according to the records of the Knoxville City Council minute books, Newman requested city leaders to furnish him with $15 so that he could install either a telegraph or telephone line from City Hall to his home to arouse him in case of a fire as he could no longer clearly hear the cracked City Hall bell from his home. When Knoxville purchased a new Silsby steam fire engine (the "Alex Allison," named after a popular progressive Democratic city alderman, who, as chairman of the police and fire committee had negotiated the contract) at the bargain price of $3200 and it arrived in December 1878, Newman was quickly reassigned from the "J.C. Luttrell" to take possession of the city's newest engine. In early 1880, considering the knowledge of steam engines and hydraulics required to be an engineer, city leaders agreed to pay an annual salary to only the fire department's engineers. The engineer of the "J.C. Luttrell" was paid $110 a year whereas the veteran Newman was paid $150. When city leaders reorganized the fire department again in March 1883 and agreed to pay its volunteer firemen an annual salary, Newman continued to receive $150, a rate which made him the highest paid fireman (the chief only earned $100 a year).




"Aurora," an 1879 Silsby Steam Fire Engine purchased by the Marietta, Georgia Fire Department is an identical model to the "Alexander Allison," Knoxville Fire Department's second steamer acquired in 1878. (Marietta, GA Fire Museum)

 

In early 1885, city leaders reorganized the fire department again, this time abandoning the voluntary fire department model in favor of a professional, paid fire department. Even then, Newman remained the highest paid fireman on staff at $75 a month.  Herman Schenck, a painter by trade and a regular member of the voluntary fire department was elected to become the first paid chief at $50 per month. In 1889, however, the annual salaries of the fire department personnel was readjusted at which point the chief's salary was raised to $83.33 per month while the engineer's salary remained fixed at $75. Still, the engineer, the man responsible for running and managing the steam engine, captured the public's attention and the easily recognizable David Newman, with his long Rip Van Winkle-like white beard, was a local hero.

As Knoxville entered the 1890s, the boom times slowed as another economic depression, the Panic of 1893, swept over the nation, engulfing the Mountain City. Businesses came to a screeching halt and the city fathers tightened their belts. In such times, city leaders adopted fiscal probity and thus no new expenses were allocated for the fire department.  Many Knoxvillians felt confident that their modern firefighting force, which consisted of three steam fire engines (a brand new engine, the "M.E. Thompson" purchased in 1892, the "Alex Allison" with 15 years of service, and the "J.C. Luttrell" in semi-retirement with 26 years of service), a hook and ladder truck, two hose reels, a state of the art Gaynor Electric Fire Alarm, eleven horses, and twenty-four firemen, could sufficiently protect the city's residents and property. Yet Newman often warned that the city had been spared the great conflagrations that regularly destroyed large portions of other Gilded Age American cities such as Chicago and Boston. In the 1890s, the Knoxville Tribune became the voice of progressive Democratic reformers and quoted Newman to warn Knoxvillians that time was not on their side when it came to further bolstering their fire defenses and shoring up glaring gaps in the city's fire codes.



James Rodgers Newman, 1897
McClung Digital Collection

To be sure, Knoxville did not totally escape the fire-fiend untouched. There were approximately 60-80 fires a year throughout the early to mid-1890s, but few involved multiple structures. Annual losses due to fires jumped significantly throughout the 1890s, doubling to about $85,000 a year. There were near misses, in the case of a fire that broke out along Gay Street in the central business district in 1895; however, none of these fires met the definition of a cataclysmic conflagration until the Million Dollar Fire of 1897. By that time, Newman's youngest son, James Rodgers Newman, had been elected to join the force. James, like his father, was mechanically inclined and thus he served as an assistant engineer on the "M.E. Thompson." A life long bachelor, he devoted his life to both of his families--splitting time living at home and the various fire stations in which he was based.

On the morning of the Million Dollar Fire, the Newmans were tasked with making sure the "M.E. Thompson" and the "Alex Allison" kept running efficiently, putting a steady stream of water on the fire as it swept in both a northerly and southerly direction, devouring most of the 300 and 400 blocks on the east side of Gay Street. All engines were needed (the city also called on Chattanooga for help--they sent a steam engine and a crew to help assist the fire--more on that incredible story in the book!). The "J.C. Luttrell," affectionately named "Old Brassy" by the firefighters, was peacefully slumbering in the city stables along State Street when the fire broke out. Chief James McIntosh ordered a number of firemen to make a dash toward the State Street Stables to fetch "Old Brassy," which had rarely been used after the purchase of the "M.E. Thompson." Few thought that the old workhorse would fire up; however, it did. "Old Brassy" was only able to withstand ninety-five pounds of steam, but every little bit was critical as it appeared the whole east side of Gay Street and surrounding structures may go up in a cloud of smoke. Throughout the fire, both Newmans regularly checked on "Old Brassy," which kept plugging away at the northern end of the fire. As David and James oversaw the department's steam engines, Rufus Bearden Newman, David's second youngest son and a lineman with the East Tennessee Telephone Company, risked his life on numerous occasions as he raced into all but four of the burning buildings to save the company's telephones.

By noon the fire was all but contained. Some eighteen structures were in ruins or damaged with the total of losses estimated at $1.25 million dollars. After nearly twelve hours of fighting the fire, the "M.E. Thompson" and its crew (including both Newmans), returned to its headquarters at City Hall for a much-needed rest while the "Alex Allison" and "Old Brassy" kept a steady stream of water on the smoldering ruins which burned for nearly a week. A reporter with the Knoxville Tribune stationed at City Hall asked David Newman to put the fire into perspective. The tired eyes of the 43-year veteran firefighter gazed out toward Wall Street for a few seconds before he turned toward the reporter and said, "This is the biggest disaster I ever saw or ever expect to see in this world."


David Newman, Knoxville Journal (April 10, 1897)

In the aftermath of the fire, the Newmans came up with creative solutions to resolve some of the city's fire safety issues. Progressive reformers bemoaned a negligent culture of enforcement of the city's fire codes. A lack of fire escapes was blamed for the deaths of three lodgers in the Hotel Knox and the numerous injuries incurred by those forced to jump from the third story windows of the hotel for safety on the rooftop of the one and half story E.P. King building below. Three weeks after the fire, pedestrians passing by City Hall were shocked to see a man jump from one of its third story windows with a rope fastened around his waist. When the rope caught, he then descended slowly down to safety on the street below thanks to a pulley system. The man with the rope around his waist was James Rodgers Newman. He fielded questions from the hundreds of onlookers who had descended on Market Square eager to learn of his new invention.

This chemical engine is similar to the "David Newman No. 1"
built by J.R. Newman (Vintage Fire Museum, Jeffersonville, IN)

As the weeks turned into months following the fire, city leaders and progressive reformers debated as to the best course of action to improve the city's fire defenses while also being fiscally responsible. The city had recently spent $27,000 to build a new Market House and the city coffers were running low of funds. J. R. Newman once again applied his mechanical skills to build the department its first chemical engine. The chemical engine, built to be light weight and pulled by one horse, was a revolution in firefighting, meant to save property, reducing the damages incurred by water used to douse flames. Newman tested the engine twice on November 22, 1897 to huge crowds that turned out to witness the new machine.  In its first test, Newman's chemical engine tamed the flames within two minutes and had extinguished them completely in three minutes. The flames were allowed to burn longer during the second test, which was then put out within one minute. Newman then continued to spray the ruins, fully discharging the 32 gallon tank of its chemical mixture in six minutes. The city fathers on hand were satisfied by Newman's test and soon appropriated money for the purchase of a larger chemical engine with two 50 gallon tanks. After the successful tests, Newman christened his chemical engine the "David Newman No. 1" in honor of his father. From time to time reports of the "David Newman" in action appeared in the papers. The "Newman" was credited by saving a house that erupted on fire in April 1898.

David Newman interred at Old Gray Cemetery

By that time, neither David nor James Rodgers Newman were listed on the fire department's rosters. Politics had dealt the Newmans a bad hand. In January 1898, the Republicans swept into power, claiming the city government. Consequently, their victories led to the removal of Democratic firemen in favor of Republicans. Despite the cries of progressive reformers that sought to keep its capable, veteran firemen, the Newmans were both turned out of the department by the political guillotine. Without work, David and James R. joined John William Newman, the eldest son, in the laundry business. Together, David and Sons managed the Palace Steam Laundry located on 110 Mabry (later 110 E. Vine Ave.). David Newman remained in the laundry business until he died of bronchitis in 1912. However, J. R. Newman would return to the fire department as a stoker and later mechanical engineer under a more favorable political climate in 1905. Newman remained in the service until pulmonary tuberculosis resulted in his death at the age of 51 in 1924. Newman was interred near his father in the family plot at Old Gray Cemetery.



J.R. Newman interred at Old Gray Cemetery

Shortly before David Newman passed, he helped organize the Park City Fire Department. Its first chief was his son, Rufus Bearden Newman, Sr., who he also trained to be a fireman. Rufus, already in his early 40s, served as chief until 1917, when he became captain, a post he held until he retired in his early 70s. He died on November 3, 1955 and is interred at Woodlawn Cemetery (his grave marker lists him as Rufe rather than Rufus). David Newman's grandson, Rufus B. Newman, Jr., joined the Park City Fire Department in 1911 as a pipeman and went on to serve a long career in the family business.  

David Newman's two wives are buried next to him in the family plot at Old Gray Cemetery.

 

Knoxville's Original Bobbleheads?

This fascinating caricature of Knoxville's smoke eaters ran in the December 12, 1897 edition of the Knoxville Tribune. Most likely drawn by the Tribune's artist, Matthew J. Nesseler, the image accompanied a story on the Knoxville Fire Department's move from City Hall (present-day Market Square) into their new headquarters on Commerce Street.

New blogs on specific Knoxville smoke eaters such as Captain James McIntosh & the department's father-son duo--the Newmans--as well as the Knoxville Fire Department's various headquarters and stations are coming!

Putting a date on Knoxville Fire Department's "first" ladder wagon

The following photograph, which is available online on the McClung Historical Digital Collection via their website, includes an image of what is commonly known as Knoxville's first ladder wagon along with what appears to be a group of unidentified men, presumably firemen. The image has been published and re-published in several local publications and has long been dated as ca. 1876. But is it possible to check the historical accuracy of that date and determine as well who are the unidentified firemen in this photograph?

Without the actual image to inspect for myself (and I never thought to ask for the original), I believe whoever originally catalogued this photograph did so as ca. 1876 because it is possible that it is either written on the back of the photograph (I used to work in the archives at UT and would have done the same) or rather printed as such when the image appeared in a 1922 copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel. But we must always be careful when looking to newspapers for historical fact, especially when an article is written a generation or so removed from the event. It is also quite possible that the date 1876 comes from the fact that either the cataloguer or someone with the newspaper came across information from a published or unpublished source that led them to believe that Knoxville city government purchased its first ladder wagon for the fire department in 1876; however, I have not located a purchase for a ladder wagon for 1876 in the City Council Minutes located in the Knox County Archives. On the one hand, Knoxville's voluntary fire department did in fact purchase a hook and ladder for such a company of voluntary firefighters prior to 1876. On the other hand, the city fathers approved the purchase of new fire apparatus, including a hook and ladder wagon, for their rapidly, expanding "metropolis" in the late 1880s and early 1890s.

 

But I believe the photograph CAN be dated to a specific time that is not 1876, but rather sometime between August 9, 1894-Spring 1895. How so? Three points.

 

First, let's begin with the background. The image is clearly taken in what is present-day Market Square and the building immediately behind them is City Hall, which was home to the Fire Department's main headquarters from when it opened in March 1889 to late 1897 (an image of City Hall located at the northern end of the Market House in 1893 appeared in a previous post). Thus, we can already move the date of the image from 1876 to at least post-March 1889. 

 

Second, I have managed to identify through several sources each of the firemen in this photograph, and, more importantly for dating the image, their positions within the fire department. Using both newspapers and several images in the Captain Jack Lewis Collection held at the McClung Historical Collection, I have identified the firemen and their ranks, with each of these firemen's service in the department, due to 19th century politics prior to civil service reform, only overlapping together between 1894-1895 as follows:

 

L to R: Walter E. Waldrop (94 pipeman, 95 fireman); Col. William Cross (Chief); James Jones (94 fireman, 95 hook and ladder); Sterling G. Hickle (94-95 ladderman); John B. Hawkins (94-95 ladderman); Marshall C. Hall (94 driver; 95 fireman); Herman Schenck (94 Captain, hook and ladder & electrician, 95 electrician). William Cross did not become captain until August 9, 1894. Thus the image has to be at least post-August 9, 1894.

Finally, to get to the Spring 1895 date that I propose as the cut off point for the photograph's time frame, I have enlarged the image to focus on the businesses located at the north end of Market Square as seen in this image to read the business of Howard Karnes, which was located at 31-33 Market from 1895-1902. But, T.P. McDaniel, whose business sign can barely be seen at 27 Market, was no longer listed at that site in the city directory as early as the 1895 directory.

Thus, it is my conclusion that though the image was clearly taken between August 9, 1894-Spring 1895, it is likely this image was taken near the beginning of William Cross's tenure as Knoxville's fire chief.

Jim Thompson & Knoxville's Million Dollar Fire "Smoke Eaters"

James (Jim) E. Thompson, KNS

Although he established himself as Knoxville's most prominent photographer with a rich portfolio of images of 20th century Knoxville and the Great Smoky Mountains, the latter  contributing in part to the decision to establish a national park in the region, a 16-year old James (Jim) E. Thompson cut his teeth during the city's Million Dollar Fire of 1897. Perched atop a storehouse on the west side of Gay Street, the young "Kodaker" took photographs of the fire and its aftermath.

 

 

Newspapers reported seeing "Kodakers," such as 16-year old Thompson atop storehouses on the west side of Gay Street. This photo has been attributed to Thompson

In the days after the fire, Thompson took a photograph of Knoxville's "smoke eaters" in front of the department's main headquarters located in City Hall, at the northern corner of the Market House. The department's twenty-seven year old Chief James McIntosh, who had  nearly seven years of service under his belt but who had only been recently named captain, is seated in the center, front row along with  twelve of his men stationed at City Hall, which comprised nearly half of the Knoxville Fire Department.

Interestingly, this copy of Thompson's original ran in a 1934 issue of the Knoxville News-Sentinel. The caption identifies each of the firemen; however, the Sentinel's copy-editor mistakenly butchered  McIntosh's last name, which must have been a source of embarrassment since McIntosh was still very much alive, enjoying his retirement at his home located on Chapman Highway at the Knox and Sevier County line.

City Hall, as it appeared in 1893, courtesy of Ashley Wilson (Knoxville Mercury, July 12, 2017)

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

George H. Smith: Knoxville's "First" Fallen Firefighter? (Part 2)



George H. Smith's headstone at Old Gray Cemetery.

In Part 1, I established that George H. Smith was not in fact a firefighter with the Knoxville Fire Department, but rather a prominent businessman. In 1876, Smith operated a jewelry store on Gay Street in the heart of the business district and owned numerous properties throughout the city. He had gone from an outsider, who, like many before and after him, became an insider, establishing social connections to the city's elite and acquiring additional wealth by marrying into one of Knoxville's first families. Moreover, he brought energy and a vision to invest capital into an antebellum town surrounded by untapped potential in the form of natural resources—the promise of a burgeoning city on the verge of greatness in the Appalachian South.  

Born in London, England in 1828, his family came to the United States and settled in New York while he was a young boy. He came of age in the "Empire State," entered into the jewelry profession, and married Annie M. Wintermute (see image 2—Annie is buried next to the Smith family marblestone), who bore him a son. In 1859, Smith uprooted his family and ventured south to the Queen City of the Mountains as one of the last waves of northern and foreign-born migrants to arrive in Knoxville before the Civil War.

 

Smith family plot at Old Gray Cemetery, Knoxville. Smith's headstone is far right.

The 1850s marked an increase in Knoxville's ethnic diversity revealed in the 1860 census as the foreign-born made up 22% of the city's free adult male population. While many townspeople may have found this trend disturbing as the majority of these newcomers were overwhelmingly poor and unskilled, several of these immigrants, such as Smith, would come to dominate Knoxville's postwar commercial and political affairs.

 

 

 

 

Smith prospered as Knoxville experienced a commercial boom beginning in 1868 that lasted until a national recession—the Panic of 1873—slowed, but did not halt, the city's remarkable economic growth. Smith acquired considerable property throughout the city and built his home at the corner of Walnut and Asylum (see pink arrow on 1871 map of Knoxville). A devout Christian man, Smith and his family attended St. John's where he was an active member of the Protestant Episcopal Church. He also was a member of the Masonic fraternity holding the titles of "Worthy Master" and "Past High Priest" of a local chapter (note the Masonic iconography on the Smith stone).

 

Annie died in 1871. Although grief stricken, Smith soon found love with another woman, twenty-one years his junior, also named Annie. Smith's marriage into the Ramage family was typical of many wealthy outsiders before him, which solidified a union between Knoxville's native and non-native elites. This bond among elites survived the Civil War, which divided many townspeople lower on the socio-economic ladder, and was an instrumental factor in Knoxville's rapid postwar economic growth as locals enthusiastically welcomed a newer generation of Yankees from Ohio and New York especially, who brought with them, like a generation before, much-needed energy, a vision of a New South, and, most importantly, deep pockets as they arrived in the late 1860s. Smith's second marriage produced a second son who was three years old on the morning of December 20, 1876 when his father suddenly awoke to the terrifying sound of the ringing of a fire bell.

 

Again, over time, accounts of Smith's active involvement with the fire department as a concerned citizen who not only advocated for the purchase of modern firefighting apparatus, but also answered the alarm bell became blurred as the city gradually transitioned from a voluntary fire department in the1870s and early 1880s into a professional paid fire department in 1885. As such, many Knoxvillians in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century simply referred to Smith, who died fighting a December 1876 blaze, as the city's first fallen firefighter. What soon became a "fact" was subsequently published and republished in newspapers and books. Hence, today you will find Smith's name on the Bell Buckle memorial to the state's fallen firefighters as the first casualty among Tennessee's smoke eaters.

 

What happened 141 years ago today is a tragic story. Tragic for the death of a prominent Knoxville merchant, husband, and father, but also an eye opening warning that went largely unheeded by city fathers that they needed to bolster their firefighting defenses in a rapidly expanding Gilded Age mountain city.

 

What follows is a portion of a first draft that was written for chapter 2 of Knoxville's Million Dollar Fire, which traces the evolution of Knoxville fire department:

 

A blast of cold arctic air preceded the 1876 winter solstice by a day as the mercury fell below twenty degrees in Knoxville.  While most of the townspeople slept, the East Tennessee, Virginia, and Georgia Railroad depot was a busy hub of activity at half past two on the morning of December 20.  The railroad’s passenger train number four was departing as a small army of men loaded and unloaded a score of freight cars that stood on the tracks underneath the elevated Gay Street bridge.  Meanwhile, the watchman at Burr and Terry’s lumber yard observed the bustling activity from his vantage point a block directly east of the depot.  Each arriving and departing train represented the only break in his monotonous routine of keeping a watchful eye on things around the yard.  Suddenly he heard a loud cracking and bursting noise from Allison and McClung’s warehouse which adjoined Burr and Terry’s lumber yard alongside the tracks.  Upon closer examination, he found a bright flame that appeared to emanate from the rear of the building.  Startled to see the advertised fireproof brick warehouse ablaze, the watchman hastened to sound the alarm.  The fire gained significant ground before the alarm, relayed by word of mouth, reached City Hall, the site of the fire alarm bell and the bulk of Knoxville's firefighting apparatus.  In short order, the bell at City Hall announced the arrival of an industrializing city’s greatest fear—the fire-fiend.

 

1872 photograph (McClung Historical Collection) looking northwest across Gay Street. The site of the fire (Allison & McClung's warehouse) is marked by the red arrow. However, the warehouse was not built until 1875. First Creek is visible behind and to the right of Burr & Terry's lumber yard. This is where the J.C. Luttrell, the city's lone steamer, was stationed to fight the fire. The open field to the south of Allison's & McClung's warehouse is where the Circus and matches of base ball were played in the early to mid-1870s after development along the 300 and 400 blocks of Gay Street put an end to base ball in Knoxville on its original grounds.

Suddenly the terrific peals of the fire bell awoke the silence.  Aroused from their slumbers, a number of citizens raced from their homes to the scene of the fire.  For a country deep in the throes of its second industrial revolution, marked by an extraordinary series of technological innovations, most municipal voluntary fire departments, which were organized to safeguard their communities from devastation and economic ruin, failed nationwide to keep pace with the rapid process of urbanization.  Thus lacking the means to sufficiently combat fires that burned with regularity in densely built urban areas and threatened both lives and property, the combustible Americans cities of the nineteenth century required a massive response in firefighting capacity.  Fire was the responsibility of citizens of all stripes.  Thus merchant princes and clerks, professional men and unskilled laborers alike, threw aside whatever they were doing as soon as the fire bell tolled and raced to the scene of the fire with their leather water buckets (municipal laws required every property owner to keep two buckets filled with water at all times) or joined teams to help pump the machines of the hand-drawn era of fire engines.

 

George H. Smith, prominent businessman and property owner, did not hesitate for a moment to answer the alarm as he leaped from his bed and hastily dressed himself.  It was not at all uncommon to find Smith, an active leader in the community, on the front lines fighting a fire.  Firefighting not only demonstrated one’s masculinity by testing their strength, courage, and speed, but also enabled wealthy men to establish their civic virtue by exhibiting their leadership capability.  Smith was among the foremost advocates of augmenting Knoxville’s firefighting efficiency.  He frequently attended municipal meetings and signed petitions to press city fathers to purchase the latest equipment and repair any damaged apparatus.  From time to time, he even contributed out of pocket to help defray the costs for such expenses and compensated voluntary firefighters for their bravery and service.  Smith grabbed his winter coat and kissed his young bride goodbye as he stepped out on to his porch and bundled against the biting cold. 

 

Knoxville, 1871 map (Library of Congress). For context, yellow arrow lower left is the University of Tennessee. Blue and white arrows centrally located indicates the present day sites of the Tennessee Theater and Market Square respectively. The pink arrow at the corner of Walnut and Asylum is where George Smith resided on the morning of December 20, 1876. The red arrow, is the site of the fire and the black star indicates the location where Engineer David Newman stationed the city's lone steam fire engine to draw water from First Creek.

Arriving at the scene of the fire, Smith quickly surveyed the situation.  Allison and McClung’s warehouse was completely engulfed as flames flared and twisted angrily up into the night sky.  Various machinery, produce, and other combustible materials stored inside the warehouse fueled the blaze.  Across the open field that hosted itinerant circuses and base ball matches, David Newman, the able engineer of the J.C. Luttrell, stationed the city's lone steamer, a nearly ten year old Silsby fire steam engine, along the bank of First Creek on Crozier Street so that he had an available source of water to feed his engine.  But it would take time, as much as ten to fifteen minutes under the most favorable conditions, before Newman could throw a solid stream of water at high pressure on the fire.  Moreover, the department’s three hand engine companies struggled in the frigid conditions as pipes froze solid thereby rendering the bulk of the city’s firefighting apparatus impotent. 

 

Col. Hugh Smith then arrived on the scene and, as the owner of the largest quantity of goods stored in the burning warehouse, assumed charge of directing efforts to salvage any materials in and around the warehouse.  The conditions were much too dangerous to send anyone inside; therefore, the Colonel dispatched small teams to clear a train of cars that stood on the tracks in front of the warehouse.  While most of the cars were empty, burning embers landing near one coal filled car threatened to ignite its combustible cargo.  George Smith and his team was tasked with rolling this car to a safe distance down the track.  As the men took hold of the car, Smith stepped on the side of the track nearest the warehouse.  All of a sudden, a low and distant rumble of thunder shook the ground.  A frightening cry sounded almost simultaneously.  “The wall is falling!”  The warning came too late for Smith.  Trapped between the burning inferno and the railroad car, he had nowhere to run once the brick wall, expanded by the fierce heat, crackled and crumbled outward.  Hundreds of bricks rained down, burying Smith beneath a pile of crushing debris.  Dozens of hands immediately pitched in to clear the mass of brick and mortar before them thus revealing Smith’s lifeless body so covered in dust that he was not recognized until the jeweler’s longtime friend Edward Jackson Sanford arrived on the scene and confirmed his identify.  

Present day site of the fire (to the right of the tracks). Photograph taken on the Gay Street viaduct looking northwest.

Before the smoldering ruins of Allison and McClung’s warehouse had cooled, a cluster of influential reform-minded citizens began to advocate for a commonsense approach to combat fire and improve Knoxville’s fire protection.  A comprehensive report of the fire and an assessment of the voluntary fire department revealed that it was woefully unprepared to protect Knoxville against a massive conflagration.  The key findings of the report emphasized the department’s slow response time and outdated, faulty equipment.  Knoxville had failed to modernize its fire defenses in light of an ever-changing and expanding urban landscape. 

 

The delay in the fire department’s response exposed an inadequate system of alarm.  In an industrial age in which most urban fire departments had long adopted fire alarm telegraph systems developed in the 1850s to more accurately pinpoint the scene of a fire, Knoxville continued to rely on preindustrial methods of alarm used since colonial times.  That most residents first learned of imminent danger from the tolling of the city hall bell contributed to the slow response.  Calls to repair the cracked bell that many Knoxvillians on the outskirts of town claimed they could not hear had been ignored for nearly five years.  Despite recommendations to purchase a modern telegraph alarm system, city leaders buried further discussion in committee and justified their inaction in light of the lingering regional and national recession.  Another twelve years passed before the city fathers approved the purchase of a modern electric alarm system. 

 

A second warning revealed by the deadly fire concerned Knoxville’s antiquated fire apparatus.  Although the fire department’s lone steamer had performed admirably in arresting the flames in challenging conditions, the subfreezing temperatures highlighted shortcomings of the voluntary fire department's hand-operated fire engines.  Whereas most cities made the transition to steam prior to the Civil War and never looked back, Knoxville city government had recently opted to purchase a third hand engine in favor of another expensive and occasionally fickle steam fire engine.  This bold decision, driven by fiscal probity, ignored appeals from the fire chief, business leaders, and reformers for a second steamer to help cover an expanding metropolis.  The new fire apparatus that city fathers christened the “Reliance” failed to live up to its name as it, and the other two low pressure hand engines, proved counterproductive in inclement weather.  Once more the city council balked and fell back on habitual remedies.  The city fathers hedged their bets on a less costly solution to fire protection and approved the purchase of four hundred feet of new hose.  Moreover, they reorganized the department in the hope that it would prove more efficient in answering future alarms.

 

The piecemeal response on the part of Knoxville’s leaders revealed all the harbingers of trouble to come.  All too often, the clear warning signs of impending disaster were either dismissed in the name of fiscal responsibility or ignored, swept under the rug of borrowed time.  Conservative boosters and like-minded members of the press were notorious for constructing an alternate script that glossed over the city’s outdated firefighting apparatus and the destruction wrought by fire.  Rather, these stories emphasized individual acts of heroism and bravery—such as George Smith.

 

In the days that followed the fatal fire of 1876, Knoxville’s city fathers, merchant princes, and the press followed the same pattern of response to fire first exhibited by the town’s pioneer settlers.  This elite group extolled the virtue and skill of its firefighters and their lone steamer, which prevented the spread of fire and thus safeguarded lives and additional properties.  They focused their narrative on a celebration of George Smith’s life, his civic virtue, and selfless bravery.  Smith’s heroism embodied the classical republican notions of disinterested public service that nineteenth century Americans had come to attribute to its political leaders as well as voluntary and professional firemen.  His death, albeit tragic, represented a noble sacrifice to protect and secure the lives and property of others.  With each new telling and retelling, Smith the jeweler filled with voluntaristic public spirit who raced headfirst into danger without a moment’s doubt to assist the fire department fight infernos blurred into Smith the fireman. 

 

A close reading between the lines of this narrative, however, revealed all the hazards to Knoxville connected with fire.  Be that as it may, the warning signs eroded with the passage of time and a lack of devastating fires.  A collective amnesia soon descended once again over Knoxville, wiping out memories of the dangers posed by inadequate fire protection as residents were lulled into a false sense of security.  The fire-fiend was neither an infrequent visitor nor did it discriminate between rich and poor as it consumed shanty dwellings and two and three-story brick storehouses alike.  But the fact that Knoxville remained relatively small and spread out for much of its history minimized the potential for catastrophic fires that consumed several blocks of residences and businesses in many larger nineteenth century American industrialized cities.  The townspeople’s good fortune bred complacency and a general lackadaisical attitude towards the enforcement of fire codes.          

 

A dangerous cocktail of collective amnesia, complacency, and a general lackadaisical attitude towards fire safety reform, while Knoxville's dense, urban landscape grew alarmingly, generated the volatile environment that fueled Knoxville's Million Dollar Fire.

noxvillians in the early twentieth century simply referred to Smith as the city's first fallen firefighter and what became a factoid was subsequently published and republished in newspapers and books. Hence, today you will find Smith's name on a Bell Buckle, TN memorial as the first casualty among Tennessee's smoke eaters.

Here is a little narrative of the events that transpired 140 years ago in the early hours of December 20, 1876:

A blast of cold arctic air preceded the 1876 winter solstice by a day as the mercury fell below twenty degrees in Knoxville. While most of the townspeople slept, the East Tennessee, Virginia, and Georgia Railroad depot was a busy hub of activity at half past two on the morning of December 20. The railroad’s passenger train number four was departing as a small army of men loaded and unloaded a score of freight cars that stood on the tracks underneath the elevated Gay Street bridge. Meanwhile, the watchman at Burr and Terry’s lumber yard observed the bustling activity from his vantage point a block directly east of the depot. Each arriving and departing train represented the only break in his monotonous routine of keeping a watchful eye on things around the yard. Suddenly he heard a loud cracking and bursting noise from Allison and McClung’s warehouse which adjoined Burr and Terry’s lumber yard alongside the tracks. Upon closer examination, he found a bright flame that appeared to emanate from the rear of the building. Startled to see the advertised fireproof brick warehouse ablaze, the watchman hastened to sound the alarm. In short order, the bell at the city hall announced the arrival of an industrializing city’s greatest fear—the fire fiend.

Suddenly the terrific peals of the fire bell awoke the silence. Aroused from their slumbers, a number of citizens raced from their homes to the scene of the fire. For a country deep in the throes of its second industrial revolution, marked by an extraordinary series of technological innovations, municipal fire department services developed to safeguard communities from devastation and economic ruin failed nationwide to keep pace with the rapid process of urbanization. Lacking the means to sufficiently combat fires that burned with regularity in densely built urban areas and threatened both lives and property, the combustible cities of the nineteenth century required a massive response in firefighting capacity. Fire was the responsibility of citizens of all stripes. Thus merchant princes and clerks, professional men and unskilled laborers threw aside whatever they were doing as soon as the fire bell tolled to carry buckets of water or join teams to help pump the hand-drawn era of fire engines.

George H. Smith, a prominent businessmen who owned a jewelry store and held title to considerable property throughout the city, did not hesitate for a moment as he hastily dressed and kissed his young bride goodbye. It was not at all uncommon to find Smith, an active leader in the community, on the front lines fighting a fire. Firefighting not only demonstrated one’s masculinity by testing their strength, courage, and speed, but also enabled wealthy men to establish their civic virtue by exhibiting their leadership capability. From time to time Smith joined Knoxville’s volunteer fire department and took the lead on increasing the city’s firefighting apparatus. Smith grabbed his winter coat and rushed out of his home located at the corner of Walnut and Asylum. As he bundled against the biting cold, Smith could faintly see the J.C. Luttrell, the fire department’s lone steamer, pulling out of its headquarters at the north corner of Market Square. The horse-drawn Silsby steam engine raced northward in the direction of the railroad. The forty-eight year old jeweler took off on foot taking the most direct route to save time and thus making great strides until his pace was slowed as he ascended a hill between Reservoir and Vine. Once Smith crested the hill he could see a thick black column of smoke billowing and flames bursting through the roof of one of the warehouses along the railroad tracks below him. He carefully descended down the steep hill, made more treacherous on a moonless night and slick, icy conditions.

Arriving on the scene, Smith quickly surveyed the situation. Allison and McClung’s warehouse was completely engulfed as flames flared and twisted angrily up into the night sky. Various machinery, produce, and other combustible materials stored inside the warehouse fueled the blaze. Across the open field that hosted the circus and base ball matches, Smith could see David Newman, the able engineer of the J.C. Luttrell, station the steamer along the bank of First Creek on Crozier Street so that he had an available source of water to feed his engine. But it would take time, as much as ten to fifteen minutes under the most favorable conditions, before Newman could throw a good stream on the fire. Moreover, the department’s hand engine companies struggled in the frigid conditions as pipes froze solid thereby rendering the bulk of the city’s firefighting apparatus impotent.

Col. Hugh Smith then arrived on the scene and, as the owner of the largest quantity of goods stored in the burning warehouse, assumed charge of directing efforts to salvage any materials in and around the warehouse. He dispatched small teams to clear a train of cars that stood on the tracks in front of the warehouse. While most of the cars were empty, burning embers landing near one car filled with coal threatened to ignite its combustible cargo. George Smith and his team was tasked with rolling this car to a safe distance down the track. As the men took hold of the car, Smith stepped on the side nearest the house. With his back to the warehouse, he pushed with all of all his strength. All of a sudden, a low and distant rumble of thunder shook the ground. A frightening cry sounded almost simultaneously. “The wall is falling!” The warning came too late for Smith. Trapped between the burning warehouse and the railroad car, he had nowhere to run once the brick wall, expanded by the fierce heat, crackled and crumbled outward. Hundreds of bricks rained down, burying Smith beneath a pile of crushing debris. Dozens of hands cleared the mass of brick and mortar before them revealing Smith’s lifeless body so covered in dust that he was not recognized until the jeweler’s longtime friend Edward Jackson Sanford confirmed his identify.The first name that appears on the Tennessee Fallen Firefighters Memorial is George H. Smith of Knoxville's Fire Department who perished in a warehouse fire 140 years ago tomorrow morning.