The new day dawned to show several chimneys standing amid the smoking rubble. Little Charles Hummer was found, alive and well, in a ditch a few blocks away from home. Borough Council treated the Lambertville firefighters to breakfast at the Railroad House and National Hotel.
The bank’s money had survived the flames, and the bank opened for business at 9 a.m. across the street on the northeast corner of Second and Harrison streets in a house recently vacated by George W. Bunn – just eight hours after the first cry of “Fire!”
That day and the next, the town was aswarm with sightseers. Josiah Butler buried the two dead horses at a rate of $1 each, payable by the borough. Milford photographer George W. Freeland came to capture the scenes of devastation. (No, I haven’t seen those pictures, but I’m still looking.) Also flocking to town were insurance agents and manufacturers of safes and fire engines.
The Deemys moved out of their scorched rented house on Bridge Street and into a house they owned at 9 Second Street. After repairs had been made, landlady Emma Poulson rented the Bridge Street house to Emley Hyde, so he could house his displaced family and boarders.
Ishmael Brink bought a little ad in the Independent thanking his friends and saying “it was through their exertions alone that my hardware store and dwelling were saved from the flames.”
The Independent measured the burned frontage: Along Bridge Street for 240 feet; along (Hugh) Warford’s Alley, 172 feet; on Second Street 159 feet; along Harrison Street, 299 feet.
“The origin of the fire is not positively known,” reported the Hunterdon Republican newspaper, “but it is supposed that it was the work of an incendiary as it broke out in a barn, where no fire or lights had been used.” The Press concurred.
But the Independent thought, “It might have been caused by one of the horses treading on a parlor match in the litter, or upon one of those paper caps which so many boys are using, or the casting of a cigar stump into a dry manure heap by some one who went to the water closet in the rear of Hann & Williams’ factory, and which was used in the night as well as day time… we would rather believe it was from the latter causes than that of the incendiary’s work.”
So Dr. Deemy’s Horse is a suspect, just like Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow was blamed for the Chicago Fire of 1871. But what about that “paper cap”? Cap pistols were indeed in use at that time. They had been invented right after the Civil War to help gun manufacturers survive peacetime. And the Deemys had two sons – John Saxton, 12, and Charles Carroll, about 16.
It’s probably unfair, but I like John Saxton Deemy (1866-1915) for the fire. Before video games replaced it, fire had been a favorite plaything among growing boys.
Young Deemy grew up to be a physician, practicing in Frenchtown with his dad in the early 1890s before continuing his career in Bellefontaine, Ohio. The book “Memoirs of the Miami Valley” (1919) says, “Of great personal magnetism, Dr. Deemy attracted a large and devoted clientele, to which his cheery disposition and human sympathy increasingly endeared him, while his proficiency as a physician and surgeon won him enviable distinction in the profession... he had but one aim – the relief of human suffering.”
So, he was probably an upright lad who would never dream of burning down half his hometown. But accidents do happen.
Epilogue – The universally recognized need for a fire engine packed Borough Hall on July 10. Deemy chaired the meeting, with merchant William Martin as secretary. Two committees were formed – one to find out how much a steam-powered fire engine would cost, and another to gauge the willingness of the citizenry to pay for it. The borough’s charter did not allow it to carry any more than $2,000 in debt, and it was already nearly maxed out. Spoke-manufacturer Nathan Shurtz favored voluntary subscriptions, but if that failed, he would back Deemy’s plan for selling shares of stock to be redeemed by the borough later on.
Another meeting was held July 17, where it was learned that a steam fire engine would cost $2,000 to $3,500. The funding committee didn’t make a full report, but a new committee of prominent businessmen was formed to figure out how to pay for a fire engine. Deemy was chairman.
Apparently the effort fizzled. Seventeen days later the Independent would report, “As the smoke of the late fire gradually vanished, the enthusiasm for getting a good fire engine seemed to go with it, and we scarcely hear the subject mentioned any more.” Although the old Vigilant hand pumper was repaired, Frenchtown would not acquire a steam-powered pumper for another 10 years.
After some fumbling and delay, the borough would pay $8 for an engraved brass speaking trumpet to present to the Lambertville firefighters as a thank-you gift.
Some businesses bounced back, and others didn’t. The bounciest proved to be the bank, which would build a substantial brick bank on Bridge Street and dedicate it in December. Banker Stover bought a lot that August on the northwest corner of Harrison and Sixth streets for his new home, a house in which his two children would grow up and live out their lives.
Bert Williams didn’t waste much time either. By mid-July he had opened a freshly stocked pharmacy beside William Martin’s general store. In August he let Wilson Hyde slap up an ice creamery and confectionary shop on the ashes of his burned building. The Independent marveled that it had been built in just three hours. But before the year was out, construction was underway on the much-more-serious edifice that stands there now. Once it was done, Hummer’s furniture and undertaking, which had temporary quarters elsewhere on Bridge Street, moved right back in. On July 13, the Independent announced that jeweler Miller had relocated to the west side of Brink’s hardware, and marveled that “the fire did not destroy Mr. Miller’s energy to drive business – not in the least.”
The hotel never came back. Nor did the Press. Although the financial books had been secured by employee William B. Stout, the press and other equipment had been destroyed. Printer/journalist Charles Joiner had recently let his insurance lapse after paying premiums for 10 years. So, as he put it, it was “a clean sweep.” Even the grim journalistic satisfaction of witnessing the terrible spectacle had been denied him. He had been in Trenton on the night of the fire. Nevertheless, he managed to produce one more edition of the Press, which was printed in Trenton. In November Joiner began publishing The Mail, an evening daily newspaper, in Trenton. Later he moved on, eventually settling in Allentown, N.J., where he became borough clerk while working as a printing foreman for the Allentown Messenger.
Although there was no gloating in its fire coverage, the Independent had been engaged in an ugly rivalry with the Press. The Independent printed a 400-copy extra edition, which competed with the Press’ death rattle. With the Press vanquished, the Independent would enjoy a monopoly that ended the following year with the advent of the Frenchtown Star.
Harness-maker McIntyre thought he might set up shop in Erwinna, Pa., and photographer Schofield went home to Connecticut. The fire gave a little boost to photographer Freeland. He was selling pictures of the devastation at 50 cents for the large ones and 25 cents for the smaller ones. He also offered two stereoscopic views.
The fire was the end of the Hann & Williams spoke factory, which was only one-quarter insured. One of the partners, Edwin Williams, who had been elected to Borough Council in ’74, stayed in town, but he was no longer a captain of industry. He served briefly as borough clerk in ’79. The 1880 Census lists him as a laborer, and in 1900 and 1920 he was a bank teller.
Samuel and Amy Pittenger began rebuilding their house in August.
Levi Able became proprietor of the Little York hotel, and in 1880 took over a barbershop in Bloomsbury. In 1881 the Ables sold the 39 Bridge Street lot to Lorenzo Kerr, who built a nearly identical addition to Williams’ building there the following year. Both halves look the same except the Kerr building has only one storefront.
Ten years after the big fire, the Union Fire Company was formed. Under its protection, buildings have burned, but only one or two at a time.
The End
Excellent history, as always. Nice tidbit about cap guns.