fast they had erected it, in San Francisco style: three days for a house, six for an engine house. When its entrance doors were open, like barn doors, the arched opening looked like the spreading of an angel’s wings. Sawyer felt he was returning to paradise, though the men inside were not angels by any stretch of the imagination.
Broderick welcomed him as a temporary “bunker” because he had no place to live. “My men are rough men with rough pasts,” he warned, “hard as flint and possessed of lightning tempers.” A town formed ashastily as San Francisco was as inflammable as its inhabitants’ tempers, and these men were walking tinderboxes. Broderick had known them from his New York firefighting days. They had either sailed westward with him or followed him on their own, slavish in their devotion. They sprang from every class and included merchants, soldiers, laborers, and bankers, but no greater gang of rogues existed—deadly gunslingers, gamblers, professional blacklegs, barroom brawlers, and a world heavyweight champion known as the Ugliest Man in California. All were political shoulder strikers, electioneering ruffians who protected the ballot box as poll watchers for Broderick. A couple were murderers. “Broderick has certainly allied himself with a lively set of rogues,” Sawyer thought. Though of dubious character (many had served time in prison), they loved to fight fire and would lay down their lives for Broderick. That was their saving grace, though almost all of them, like diminutive gunfighter Billy Mulligan, were destined to meet tragic ends: murdered, hanged, or deported. Broderick needed his roughnecks, street ruffians, ex-boxers, and gunslingers to make the political and civic changes needed if San Francisco was to survive the arsonist some called the Lightkeeper because he struck only when the Lightkeeper’s Wind was blowing from the north and signal men on Telegraph Hill were lighting their warning fires against the dense fog. In the process his men might steal a little from rich thieves like Brannan, break a jaw or two, or rig an election or three or four to increase Broderick’s political clout, but was it not all for the greater good? For most volunteers firefighting was secondary to political expediency. They all had other jobs except for Sawyer, who was waiting for an engineering berth on a steamer.
Broderick’s men—rugged, leathered, and weather-bleached—had been rushing about all day, shouting, joking, spitting, cursing, rough-housing, and fighting—mostly fighting. Five had been heavyweight boxers. All walked with a light swinging step, defiant and jaunty, much like gamecocks. Saints or devils, the volunteers were worthy of their pride. Their dress, as befitting such a dangerous occupation, was loose, careless, lively—and even sexy. A few wore high collars and fancy decorated vests, but most wore the current New York–style uniform: tight blue-black trousers or leggings, thigh-length black cowhide boots, red double-breasted flannel shirts with black buttons, and black ties. Some wore wide leather belts, but a third wore colorful suspenders in the style of New York Company Twenty-four. These gallowses, fastened in backby a leather clasp in the shape of an eagle’s head, permitted them more speed in dressing.
Sawyer walked to the center of the engine house to study the barely functioning manual pumper under the lantern light. It was an offspring of an ancient line of “reg’lar highbred little steppers” and “light musical snuffboxes” of steel rods and brass supports that had emerged full born from the Continental Eagle in Old Maiden Lane. East Coast volunteers endowed their engines with fanciful names. Manhattan’s Engine Three called theirs Old Brass Backs because brass covered most of its pumping mechanism. Another named their double-decker end-stroke engine the Valiant. In that tradition Broderick One called their pumper the Mankiller, after a similar hand
Broderick welcomed him as a temporary “bunker” because he had no place to live. “My men are rough men with rough pasts,” he warned, “hard as flint and possessed of lightning tempers.” A town formed ashastily as San Francisco was as inflammable as its inhabitants’ tempers, and these men were walking tinderboxes. Broderick had known them from his New York firefighting days. They had either sailed westward with him or followed him on their own, slavish in their devotion. They sprang from every class and included merchants, soldiers, laborers, and bankers, but no greater gang of rogues existed—deadly gunslingers, gamblers, professional blacklegs, barroom brawlers, and a world heavyweight champion known as the Ugliest Man in California. All were political shoulder strikers, electioneering ruffians who protected the ballot box as poll watchers for Broderick. A couple were murderers. “Broderick has certainly allied himself with a lively set of rogues,” Sawyer thought. Though of dubious character (many had served time in prison), they loved to fight fire and would lay down their lives for Broderick. That was their saving grace, though almost all of them, like diminutive gunfighter Billy Mulligan, were destined to meet tragic ends: murdered, hanged, or deported. Broderick needed his roughnecks, street ruffians, ex-boxers, and gunslingers to make the political and civic changes needed if San Francisco was to survive the arsonist some called the Lightkeeper because he struck only when the Lightkeeper’s Wind was blowing from the north and signal men on Telegraph Hill were lighting their warning fires against the dense fog. In the process his men might steal a little from rich thieves like Brannan, break a jaw or two, or rig an election or three or four to increase Broderick’s political clout, but was it not all for the greater good? For most volunteers firefighting was secondary to political expediency. They all had other jobs except for Sawyer, who was waiting for an engineering berth on a steamer.
Broderick’s men—rugged, leathered, and weather-bleached—had been rushing about all day, shouting, joking, spitting, cursing, rough-housing, and fighting—mostly fighting. Five had been heavyweight boxers. All walked with a light swinging step, defiant and jaunty, much like gamecocks. Saints or devils, the volunteers were worthy of their pride. Their dress, as befitting such a dangerous occupation, was loose, careless, lively—and even sexy. A few wore high collars and fancy decorated vests, but most wore the current New York–style uniform: tight blue-black trousers or leggings, thigh-length black cowhide boots, red double-breasted flannel shirts with black buttons, and black ties. Some wore wide leather belts, but a third wore colorful suspenders in the style of New York Company Twenty-four. These gallowses, fastened in backby a leather clasp in the shape of an eagle’s head, permitted them more speed in dressing.
Sawyer walked to the center of the engine house to study the barely functioning manual pumper under the lantern light. It was an offspring of an ancient line of “reg’lar highbred little steppers” and “light musical snuffboxes” of steel rods and brass supports that had emerged full born from the Continental Eagle in Old Maiden Lane. East Coast volunteers endowed their engines with fanciful names. Manhattan’s Engine Three called theirs Old Brass Backs because brass covered most of its pumping mechanism. Another named their double-decker end-stroke engine the Valiant. In that tradition Broderick One called their pumper the Mankiller, after a similar hand
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