In 1629 Boston had one inhabitant, and he called the place Shawmut, as did the Indians who roamed the underbrush and glades for partridges, and built their campfires around its three hills. This lone inhabitant – the Rev. William Blaxton – had the strange notion that any neighbor closer than Charlestown would be crowding him. He was quite an agriculturist, and during his seven years on the peninsula cultivated a tract of land near the bay. But his days of isolation were numbered. In the spring of 1630 a band of immigrants landed in Salem under the guidance of Governor Winthrop; by July they had settled in Charlestown – then called Mishawum. Now, Mishawum had no pure water. Shawmut had beautiful springs. So Mr. Blaxton self-sacrificially invited the colonists over to Shawmut. On the 17th September 1630 the colony pitched its tents and erected crude barracks around a beautiful spring, having "resolved" in the court of government and council on September 7 to call the new settlement Boston.

BOSTON was a prosperous community in 1872.

From earliest beginnings it had battled the attacks of its ancient enemy, fire, which periodically challenged progress and threatened its homes and industries. "Never was any town under the cope of heaven more likely to be laid in ashes, either through the carelessness or the wickedness of them that sleep in it. "That such a combustible heap of contiguous houses yet stands, it may be called a standing miracle," wrote Cotton Mather in 1698. "Ten times," he continues, "has the fire made notable ruins among us, and our good servant been almost our master; but the ruins have mostly and quickly been rebuilt." Other great fires followed those mentioned by Cotton Mather – in 1702, 1711 and 1760, the latter being referred to as "the most terrible fire that has happened in this town, or perhaps in any other part of North America, far exceeding that of the second of October, 1711, till now termed ‘the great fire’."

Perhaps history was just repeating itself that Saturday evening of November 9, 1872. Stores were closed, the shutters put up, and merchants and workers went home to dinner and anticipation of a bright November Sunday. The weather was calm and clear, the moon bright and beautiful as it shone whitely on the bay, the islands, the hills and the city. Boston was always a quiet place on Saturday night, for, although the old Puritan rules had gone, yet the conservative people had not outgrown the habit of "keeping Saturday night."

A week or two before the fire some kind of horse disease had broken out and the horsecars had stopped running; it was only on November 8 that they started out again with any degree of regularity. With the horses off the job, Bostonians had fun drawing their handcarts, drays, express wagons and even hacks by hand; in some cases, squads of employees, dragging the heavily loaded wagons through the streets, were preceded by brass bands playing "Oh dear! What can the matter be?"

It is hard for us today to realize the slowness of communication of those days, so accustomed are we to learning of the happenings of far-off events the moment they take place. But in 1872 it was possible for many citizens of Boston to eat dinner, spend a quiet evening at home, and perhaps sleep soundly all night while their wealth and livelihood were going up in smoke in another part of the city.

A short distance from the bay, at the corner of Summer and Kingston streets, stood one of the most solid and well-built structures in Boston: a four-story granite building tenanted by wholesale dry-goods dealers, and vendors of hosiery, gloves, laces and hoop-skirts. It was an up-to-the-minute building for it boasted an elevator, powered by a small steam engine in the basement, and it was from the fire under this boiler that the great conflagration is supposed to have started. The caretaker had raked the coals and taken all precautions, but in some mysterious way fire broke out after everyone had gone home.

The first hint of trouble came just as the clock in the Old South Church struck seven. A pedestrian hurrying up Summer Street noticed something strange about the big granite building. Even as he paused, flames flickered in the darkened room of an upper floor. The place was on fire! He rushed to give the alarm, and by the time firemen reached the spot the flames had crept up to the top floor, quickly bursting through the frame mansard roof. In a few minutes the whole place was ablaze, and adjoining blocks on Summer and Kingston streets, and Summer and Otis streets were completely enveloped.

Avenues opening into Summer Street became funnels through which the fire poured with inconceivable force. Those fatal mansard roofs, so common in Boston at that period, were beyond reach of the most powerful engines. Narrow, irregular streets and overpowering heat rendered the efforts of the fire-fighters unavailing. Into smoke and ashes went boots and shoes, linens and calicoes, silks and velvets, shawls and hosiery, leather and rubber goods, furs, caps, gaiters, hats and all kinds of ready-made clothing, carpeting, pianos, reed organs, elevators, sewing machines, and the countless and varied articles which made up Boston’s thriving commerce, while heat and flames melted safes and pulverized marble, slate and granite. Strong currents of air were created by the intense heat; as flaming brands swirled and dropped they kindled new fires wherever they fell.

News of the calamity was flashed over the wires, and trains carrying fire engines and firemen were rushed from Worcester, Lowell, Andover, Manchester and more distant towns. In spite of all they could do the fire continued to spread, and by midnight it was apparent that the only way to arrest its progress was to create vacant spaces by blowing up buildings. Through the long hours of Saturday night and Sunday morning the weary firemen battled, and by Sunday noon the spread of fire was arrested. By evening the city was out of danger.

Sixty acres of ruins in the very heart of Boston! Over this wide area, not a single street outline could be seen; men clambered over boulders and heaps of debris in a confused search for the sites of their destroyed premises. Great thoroughfares of trade such as Franklin, Pearl, Federal, Broad, Milk and Congress’ streets had vanished from view, with not even a solitary lamp post or curbstone left to mark the location. Pockets of gas collected in sewers and in vaults under the ruins, and occasionally a small explosion was heard. About midnight on Sunday, however, a serious explosion occurred near the very spot in Summer Street where the conflagration had originated, starting the fire over again and threatening to renew the fearful scenes of Saturday night and Sunday morning. Before it was brought under control this second fire threatened the southern part of town.

In spite of the inconvenience of darkened homes and streets, with illumination depending on kerosene and candles, Boston still could be thankful that it had been spared one dreadful feature of the Chicago fire a year earlier – the spectacle of thousands of families running in terror from burning homes. Comparatively few dwelling houses were destroyed, and while the fire caused suffering it was rather from the loss of employment and income than from homelessness. About fourteen lives were lost, seven of these being firemen. Considering the vast area over which the fire swept, and the danger from falling walls and flying fragments, it is amazing that not more people lost their lives.

This seventy-five-million-dollar fire occurred only thirteen months after the disastrous Chicago conflagration, when Fireman’s Fund paid claims amounting to $529,365 – $29,365 more than its entire capital. It had taken courage and integrity to meet the Chicago losses, and now, before the company had had time to recover, came this second great test. Once more the company took its stand on the dollar-for-dollar principle; settling every claim in full, it contributed $189,589 to the rebuilding of the eastern city. Any doubts that might have arisen about the ability or willingness of Fireman’s Fund to discharge its obligations were quickly dissipated. Without waiting for the following business day, President D. J. Staples sent a wire on Sunday, November 10, from the head office in San Francisco to the New York firm which supervised the company’s business at that time: WILL MEET OUR BOSTON LOSSES PROMPTLY. LET YOUR ZEAL AND COURAGE BE UNABATED.

To survive this second disaster Fireman’s Fund was obliged to decrease its capital stock from $500,000 to $300,000. At the same time it reorganized, reducing the number of directors from fifty to eleven at the insistence of President Staples who declared, "The time has come when the business of this company can no longer be conducted on the town meeting plan." From a small, irregular, rugged and hilly peninsula Boston has become a great city covering sixty-six square miles of territory; the ancient town today finds itself a broad, spacious community built on comparatively level ground.

Boston in 1872 went through its awful ordeal of fire – to join the ranks of those cities of the United States which today stand as lasting monuments to insurance.

[Fireman’s Fund Archives: 4-1-3-4-59, 0411]