July 12, 2010, marked the 206th anniversary of Alexander Hamilton’s death (watch a video here). Representatives of the Museum of American Finance laid a wreath on Hamilton’s grave in Trinity churchyard, and tourists paused in the summer heat to honor this Founding Father.

Alexander Hamilton was a member of Trinity Church, but whether he attended services is not known (read more about the Hamilton family’s connections to Trinity here). But at the very end of his life, as he lay bleeding and paralyzed in a house on Greenwich Street, he did call for the rector of Trinity Church.

But for all his modern accomplishments, Hamilton succumbed to an ancient vice: dueling. He died on the afternoon of July 12, 1804, of a gunshot wound suffered the previous day in a duel with Vice President Aaron Burr.

As hard as it is to imagine two such prominent statesmen settling a war of words through mutually-attempted murder, dueling was widely practiced in both Europe and America at the time. Dueling over political matters seems to have been a uniquely American invention. As a young man, Andrew Jackson killed a man in a duel. Button Gwinnett, second governor of Georgia and a signer of the Declaration of Independence, was killed in duel with a political rival.

Most clergy, including the clergy at Trinity Church, opposed dueling, as did Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. Legal opposition to dueling had also formed, and the practice was outlawed in New York. None of this dissuaded Hamilton or Burr, who were longtime political enemies.

The Argument   

The events that lead up to the duel began on April 24, 1804, as Burr was campaigning for the governorship of New York. The Albany Centinel published a letter written by Dr. Charles D. Cooper to Philip Schuyler, Hamilton’s father-in-law and prominent politician in his own right. The letter alluded to Hamilton’s “despicable” opinion of Burr, reportedly expressed at a political dinner the previous winter. When Burr read the letter, he wrote Hamilton demanding that Hamilton either admit or deny the alluded-to statements. Hamilton argued that he could not admit or deny a vague inference, responding in a letter:

Repeating that I can not reconcile it with propriety to make the acknowledgment or denial you desire, I will add that I deem it inadmissible on principle, to consent to be interrogated as to the justness of the inferences which may be drawn by others, from whatever I may have said of a political opponent in the course of a fifteen years competition.

After several more letters back and forth, Burr formally challenged Hamilton to a duel. Hamilton accepted.

In the days before the duel, Hamilton wrote two letters to his wife, Eliza Schuyler Hamilton, a devout member of Trinity Church.

My Beloved Eliza:
…This is my second letter. The scruples of a Christian have determined me to expose my own life to any extent rather than subject myself to the guilt of taking the life of another. This must increase my hazards and redoubles my pangs for you. But you had rather I should die innocent than live guilty. Heaven can preserve me and I humbly hope will; but, in the contrary event, I charge you to remember that you are a Christian. God's will be done! The will of a merciful God must be good.

The Duel  

In the early hours of July 11, 1804, Hamilton boarded a rowboat with Nathan Pendleton, his second in the duel (a sort of standby and assistant), and Dr. David Hosack, his physician. They arrived at a popular dueling ground overlooking the Hudson River in Weehawken, New Jersey (dueling was illegal in New York at the time). Burr and his party were already there.

Hamilton took the northern position and bothmen readied their Wodgen & Barton dueling pistols. Dr. Hosack, the rowers, and most of Burr’s party remained in the boats so as not to witness the duel and open themselves to criminal prosecution. The only men present during the duel were Hamilton, Burr, and their seconds. Both men fired once, and Hamilton was struck in the abdomen, just above his right hip.

Hamilton's Final Hours                                                                                                 

The Rt. Rev. Benjamin Moore

Hamilton was rowed back across the Hudson to the home of William Bayard, a friend. Hamilton requested that the Rt. Rev. Benjamin Moore, rector of Trinity Church, Bishop of New York, and president of Columbia College, visit him. In a letter published on July 13, Moore described the events of the afternoon and evening of July 11:

Thursday Evening, July 12, 1804

Yesterday morning, immediately after he was brought from Hoboken to the house of Mr. Bayard, at Greenwich [modern day 82 Jane Street], a message was sent informing me of the sad event, accompanied by a request from General Hamilton, that I would come to him for the purpose of administering the holy communion, I went; but being desirous to afford time for serious reflection, and conceiving that under existing circumstances, it would be right and proper to avoid every appearance of precipitancy in performing one of the most solemn offices of our religion, I did not then comply with his desire. At one o’clock I was again called on the visit him. Upon my entering the room, and approaching the bed, with the utmost calmness and composure he said, “My dear sir, you perceive my unfortunate situation, and no doubt have been made acquainted with the circumstances which led to it. It is my desire to receive the communion at your hands. I hope you will not conceive there is any impropriety in my request.” He added “I was for some time past been the wish of my heart, and it was intention to take an early opportunity of uniting myself to the church, by the reception of that holy ordinance.”

…I then asked him, “Should it please God to restore you the health, sir, will you never be again engaged in a similar transaction? And will you employ all your influence in society to discountenance this barbarous custom?” His answer was, “That, sir, is my deliberate intention.”

I proceeded to converse with him on the subject of his receiving the Communion; and told him that with respect to the qualifications of those who wished to become partaker of that holy ordinance, my enquiries could not be made in language more expressive than that which was used by our Church—“Do you sincerely repent of your sins past? Have you a lively faith in God’s mercy through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of the death of Christ? And are you disposed to live in love and charity with all men?” He lifted up his hands and said “With the utmost sincerity of heart I can answer those questions in the affirmative—I have no ill-will against Col. Burr. I met him with a fixed resolution to do him no harm—I forgive all that happened.”

…The Communion was then administered, which he received with great devotion, and his heart afterwards appeared to be perfectly at rest. I saw him again this morning, when with his last faltering words he expressed a strong confidence in the mercy of God through the intercession of the Redeemer. I remained with him until 2 o’clock this afternoon, when death closed the awful scene—he expired without a struggle, and almost without a groan…

The Funeral

Moore’s letter was reprinted in newspapers across the country. On July 14, Hamilton’s funeral was held at Trinity Church. Gouvernor Morris, a close friend of Hamilton, gave the funeral address “on a stage erected in the portico of Trinity Church, having four of General Hamilton’s sons, the eldest about sixteen and youngest about 6 years of age with him.”

Alexander Hamilton was buried near the southern fence of Trinity churchyard. Today, his monument towers over the simple vault stone of his wife, Eliza. And somewhere in Manhattan, possibly very nearby, lay the bones of their eldest son Philip, killed in a duel three years before his famous father. Read more about that next time in The Archivist’s Mailbag.

Postscript

Dr. David Hosack went on to have several children, including sons named Nathanael Pendleton Hosack and Alexander Hosack. Alexander Hosack followed in his father’s footsteps and became a prominent physician, tending to Aaron Burr in his final years. According to Alexander Hosack’s 1871 obituary in the New York Times, he once asked Burr if he felt any remorse over Hamilton’s death. Burr reportedly said that he suffered no remorse, and that Hamilton had brought his death on himself. Nathanael Pendleton Hosack was a vestryman at Trinity Church.

Both Alexander Hosack and Nathanael Pendleton Hosack are buried in Trinity’s uptown cemetery.

By far the most interesting fire to threaten St. Paul’s Chapel was the burning of Barnum’s American Museum in1865. The museum stood directly across Broadway from St. Paul’s Chapel.

P.T. Barnum

P.T. Barnum, a successful variety-show impresario, bought the museum in 1841 and turned it into the hottest and strangest attraction in New York City. The Museum, promoted as family-friendly and moral, was equal parts natural history exhibit, freak show, and Ripley’s-Believe-It-Or-Not. In addition to country’s first public aquarium, the museum boasted a lecture hall and theatre, and exhibits including Tom Thumb, Siamese twins Cheng and Eng, presidential mementos, wax sculptures, Egyptian mummies, the “Nova Scotia Giantess”, weapons from notorious crimes, fancy shoes, old clothes-patterns, live boa constrictors, animated landscapes of foreign countries, and stuffed monkeys.

The fire in Barnum’s American Museum broke out around 12:30pm on July 13, 1865. At the time, the Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix, Trinity’s rector, was at work in his office in the rectory, then located on Church Street, across from the World Trade Center site. Dr. Dix, who served as rector from 1862 to 1908, recorded his daily activities in a series of diaries over a fifty year period beginning in 1856. He wrote about the fire:

“This was a memorable day….it was about half-past 12 or a quarter to 1, I went out into the churchyard…when I saw people looking up towards Broadway…I went to the churchyard railings at Broadway and I saw a little smoke in Ann Street. In about five minutes Barnum’s Museum was all in a blaze to the second story and then we had one of the most memorable conflagrations that I ever saw. The flames became intolerable hot and drove us out of the porch of St. Paul’s, and then as it became evident that the old church was in danger I went up on the roof, and stayed until almost half-past 4. The falling of the Museum was a sublime sight. Saint Paul’s was saved only by the direction of the wind…

We had half a dozen firemen on the roof, with a couple of sections of hose…and many other persons came and rendered assistance. The man who did most was a person who gave his name was Captain de Rohan, and said that he was an old officer of Garibaldi’s and had come out here on some business connect with that revolutionary character. This person volunteered his services, and worked very hard; he also stayed all night and kept watch and would receive no compensation and hardly any thanks: he was a very intelligent and gentlemanly person…

The fire was terrible, but also exceptionally comical…as the crowd carried off most of the curiosities and were seen rushing about with stuffed snakes and birds, and shouting as the wax-work figures were thrown out of a window.”

Though he refused compensation at the time, Captain de Rohan wrote to Trinity’s vestry almost a decade later seeking compensation for his fire-fighting efforts. De Rohan had fallen on hard times by the mid-1870s; the strange tale of his life is worth a look.

Captain William de Rohan was born William Theodore Dahlgren in 1820 in Philadelphia. His father, Bernard Ulric Dahlgren, was a Swedish consul; his mother, Martha Rowan, was American. William had at least two brothers, both older, John and Charles.

Following in his brother John’s footsteps, William became a seaman at 15, fighting in the Seminole wars and in the Texas Navy. He changed his name to de Rohan in the 1840s, reportedly after a quarrel with John. De Rohan may derive from his mother’s maiden name, Rowan. Many newspaper reports connect his mother’s family with the French de Rohans, a noble family. Martha Rowan was actually Irish—though the de Rohan name didn’t hurt William’s naval career.

According to the National cyclopaedia of American biography of 1897, De Rohan left the United States and became a soldier of fortune, serving first in the Turkish navy and then in Argentina, where he met Guiseppe Garibaldi. Garibaldi was an Italian patriot—but at the time, Italy was divided into smaller kingdoms.

Guiseppe Garibaldi

Garibaldi and de Rohan became friends, and de Rohan joined the struggle to unify Italy. It’s unclear if he participated in all of Garibaldi’s campaigns, but he spent his fortune in purchasing three steamers for the Italian navy in the late 1850s.

De Rohan commanded a U.S-made steamer named the Washington during the “Expedition of the Thousand” in 1860. The Expedition defeated the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies (encompassing most of southern Italy) and brought the Kingdom’s territory into the newly unified Kingdom of Italy.

De Rohan eventually returned to the U.S. His brother John Dahlgren was then a Captain and head of the Union Navy’s Bureau of Ordance. John Dahlgren was in charge of all naval weapons throughout the Civil War, and even invented a gun that bears his name. (Dahlgren Naval Base and Dahlgren, VA are also named for John.) De Rohan supported the Union cause, but, according to the National Cyclopaedia, was unwilling to join the Union Navy for fear he might wind up under John Dahlgren’s command. The third brother, Charles, was a Confederate Brigadier General during the Civil War who feuded with Jefferson Davis. A modern biography of Charles states that de Rohan did serve the Union—as a spy in England.

In June, 1865, one month before the fire at Barnum’s Museum, the New York Times published a short article about de Rohan meeting with General Ulysses S. Grant:

Capt. DE ROHAN, Naval A.D.C. to Gen. GARIBALDI, and Commodore of the second Garibaldi Expedition to Sicily in 1860, under the American flag, had the honor of presenting to Gen. GRANT yesterday the congratulations of Gen. GARIBALDI, who throughout the rebellion has never for a single instant wavered in the most outspoken and heartfelt expressions of sympathy for our cause…

How de Rohan came to be at St. Paul’s Chapel on July 13, 1865, remains unknown. He continued to work for Italian unification but was never repaid the money he spent on outfitting the Italian Navy. He sought a Diplomatic Claim against Italy from President Grant, but was denied. He later sought out a consulship in Samoa and was also denied.

In November 1874, a destitute de Rohan wrote to Trinity’s vestry seeking compensation for his efforts in saving St. Paul’s Chapel. Dr. Dix advanced him $150, and a vestry committee later voted to reimburse Dr. Dix.

De Rohan suffered a stroke and died a pauper in 1891.

Throughout much of the nineteenth century the area around St. Paul’s Chapel and what is now City Hall Park was a fashionable theater district. Theaters—previously open to the sky and offering day time performances—had moved indoors in the seventeenth century, spurring the development of stage lighting techniques and equipment. Candles, gaslights, and lime lights were the primary nineteenth century light sources, and many were needed to adequately illuminate the stage. Actors and audience were literally surrounded by fire and flammable objects: canvas scenery, wooden set pieces, cotton rope, curtains.

It’s no surprise then that St. Paul’s Chapel was twice threatened by theater fires, first in 1820 and again in 1848. Around 1am on May 25, 1820, a fire erupted in the Park Theater at 21, 23 and 25 Park Row, which one newspaper reporter described as “the most grand and spacious in the Union.” The theater was built and owned by the original John Jacob Astor. A play called The Siege of Tripoli, which, according to one newspaper account, “exhibited the burning of a frigate” on stage, was performed the night before.

A reporter described the scene: "The flames spread with the rapidity of lightening—the whole city was illuminated, and wind carried the burning embers a mile from the Theatre.”

John Jacob Astor had the Park Theater rebuilt only for it to burn down again in December 1848. The Astor family declined to rebuild a second time, as the theatre’s higher class clientele had moved uptown.

Stay Tuned: Next week The Archivist's Mailbag brings you the story of The Man Who Helped Unify Italy and Save St. Paul’s Chapel (and May Have Been a Spy) but Died Poor Anyway

Since the discovery of this 1768 fire bucket, The Archivist’s Mailbag has taken an interest in tales of fire near St. Paul’s Chapel. Eighteenth and nineteenth century Lower Manhattan—with densely packed wooden buildings, candles and cooking fires—was extremely vulnerable to mass conflagrations.

St. Paul’s steeple caught fire on April 22, 1799, when strong winds carried embers from a fire on Washington Street between Courtland and Dey Streets, where the the World Trade Center site now stands. On April 24, 1799, an article about the fire appeared in The Spectator:

“A fire broke out in the shop occupied by Mr. West, builder, on the west side of Washington-street…It is said to have been communicated by a boy’s imprudently placing a pot just taken from the fire amongst some shavings... Several buildings at a considerable distance from the conflagration were frequently set on fire from the flakes carried by the strong westerly wind—one of them reached even to the steeple of St. Paul’s Church and in a few moments the base of the Northwest Urn was in a blaze. One of the workmen employed about the church was immediately let down by rope from one of the upper apertures, and cut it away, when the fire was soon extinguished.”

The Archivist’s Mailbag isn’t clear what the writer meant by “northwest urn.” It may be this architectural element, which is shaped like an urn:

There is one positioned at each corner of the steeple, and it would have been possible to lower someone through an upper window of the steeple.

It’s a great and oft-repeated story: Trinity Church gave the first performance of Handel's <i>Messiah</i> in the New World.

Too bad it’s not true.

Luckily, the real story is actually more interesting.

The first performance of <i>Messiah</i> in the New World was given by William Tuckey, a bankrupt former employee of Trinity Church, as a benefit for himself on Tuesday, January 16, 1770. The concert was held at “Mr. Burns Rooms,” also know as “Burns Coffee-house,” a tavern at 9 Broadway. Tuckey actually advertised his performance as the first in America. Admission was 8 shillings.

The concert was originally scheduled for Tuesday, January 9, 1770, but postponed for one week because there were "a considerable number of Ladies and Gentlemen engag'd for the 9th, which Mr. Tuckey flatters himself will honor him with their Company."

Original advertisement from The New-York Journal, January 4, 1770:

The postponement announcement from The New-York Gazette and Weekly Mercury, January 8, 1770:

Tuckey, an Englishman who came to the colonies in 1752, had been vicar choral of the Cathedral Church of Bristol and Clerk of St. Mary Port, also in Bristol. He was hired by Trinity Church in 1753 at a salary of 25 pounds a year. His wife and children then joined him in the colonies. Tuckey’s official title was clerk and his tasks, besides teaching choir, were to set out the music for the service and lead the singing of psalms. In November 1756 Tuckey was fired from his clerk position for “refusing to officiate in time of Divine Service.” (It is unclear what the Vestry meant by that.)

After his firing, Tuckey was occasionally paid for preparing special occasion music, including music for the first service at St. Paul’s Chapel. He seems to have continued organizing choirs as well. But by 1769, he was an “insolvent debtor,” and a newspaper advertisement requested his creditors to appear before a judge to seek restitution.

From The New-York Gazette and Weekly Mercury, April 3, 1769:

The performance was well-received. 

Notice from The New-York Journal, October 4, 1770:

As for Tuckey, he remained active in the New York City music community, publishing church music and giving concerts. But his money troubles never disappeared. In 1775 he had this advertisement printed in city newspapers: 

From The New-York Gazette and Weekly Mercury, January 30, 1775:

September 21, 1776

The night was dry and blustery. Days before, the Continental Army had fled and left New York City in the hands of the British. Sometime between midnight and 1 AM a fire broke out on Whitehall Street. Trinity Church, the rector’s house, and the Charity School were soon engulfed in flames. 

Illustration of the Great Fire of 1776:

Night watchmen patrolling the streets sounded alarms, shaking rattles and ringing bells. According to his own report, the Rev. Charles Inglis, Trinity’s assistant minster, organized a bucket-brigade that poured water on the roof of St. Paul’s Chapel, an action he credited with saving the building.  Could the bucket pictured above, dated 1768, have been used to save St. Paul's Chapel?  

While there's no way to know for certain, it is likely this bucket was used to fight the fire of 1776. 

The fire bucket--recently discovered by Omayra Rivera, program administrator for St. Paul’s--lead The Archivist's Mailbag into the fascinating history of fire buckets and fire-fighting at St. Paul's Chapel.  

Fire Buckets

Fire buckets were used to get water to a fire. They were made of thick leather, sewn together with linen thread, and sealed with either paint or pitch, a tar-like substance. When fires broke out, everyone available—including women and children—would form a line from the fire to the nearest well, pond or river, and pass buckets back and forth. Men would pass the full buckets, and women and children would run or pass the empty buckets back to the water source. Later, buckets were used to feed hand-driven pumps that propelled water onto fires.

Devastating fires were a fact of life for early European settlers on the island of Manhattan. In August of 1628, just four years after the Dutch founded New Amsterdam, a minister named Jonas Michaelius wrote the second letter known to have come from the town. In it, he writes that many settlers had lost their baptismal certificates in a “general conflagration.” 

By January 1648, New Amsterdam had several hundred citizens, almost all living in flammable wooden buildings crowded south of Partition Street (now known as Fulton Street). The city’s ruling council, under the direction of Peter Stuyvesant, passed an ordinance appointing fire wardens, who were to levee fines on those caught with dirty (and therefore more flammable) chimneys and flues. The fines were used to purchase ladders, hooks, and fire buckets for the city.

Throughout the 1650s the city’s government struggled to raise the money needed for firefighting equipment, at one point levying what appears to have been a deeply unpopular tax on each house. Eventually the council strong-armed citizens into paying up, and four shoemakers were commissioned to make the buckets. Evert Duycking, the city’s glazier, was hired to paint numbers on the buckets so they could be tracked and counted easily. The buckets were hung in homes and businesses across the city, in order that they would be accessible no matter where a fire broke out.

The 1776 fire was rumored to have been started by angry Patriots in response to the British capture of the city. Loyalist newspapers reported that prior to the fire, church bells were stolen, and fire buckets had their bottoms slashed—both of which suggested the fire was arson. 

Excerpt of 1776 newspaper article about the fire:

St. Paul’s fire bucket has an intact bottom that appears to be original.

1730 illustration of a fire. Image links to the New York Public Library Digital Image Gallery: 

Arson or accident, the fire of 1776 was widespread and difficult to contain. How effective were fire buckets at stopping a fire? For this information, The Archivist’s Mailbag consulted Gina Bertucelli, Manager of Life Safety for Trinity Real Estate, who has a Masters degree in fire science with a concentration in arson investigation. She’s also a former firefighter. 

It takes between 8,000 and 10,000 gallons of water to contain 1,000 square feet of structural fire. A modern fire engine, with four hoses, will typically pump 800-900 gallons per minute onto a fire—provided there is unlimited water available. A colonial fire bucket holds approximately 3 gallons of water and weighs 25 pounds when filled. A human bucket brigade working at top speed would struggle to deliver 100 gallons of water per minute.

Fire Fighters

New Amsterdam’s other weapon for fighting fire was the Rattle-watch. Starting in 1655, able-bodied men were employed to walk the streets from 9 pm until sunrise, calling out the time at each corner, and watching for any signs of fire. They carried wooden rattles and shook them to warn people of fire or any other threatening situation.

New Amsterdam came under British control in 1664, but the city’s fire prevention measures remained largely unchanged. Ordinances were introduced requiring fire equipment to be stored in sheds in several locations around town, and requiring each house to have its own fire buckets. The rationale for these ordinances reads: “…great Damages Have bin Done by ffire in this Citty by reason there were not Instruments to quench ye same.”

On February 16, 1757, a fire broke out and burned more than an hour “before the Citizens had proper Notice of it,” leading to criticism of the Rattle-watch. At the time, all male citizens of New York were required to watch four times a year—or pay someone to do it for them. As the New York Post-Boy put it: “The citizens are required, at least four Times a year, to watch, or pay their Two and Six-pence to a Parcel of idle, drunken, vigilant Snorers, who never quell’d any nocturnal Tumult in their Lives; (Nor, as we can learn, were ever the first Discoverers of a Fire breaking out,) but would, perhaps, be as ready to join in a Burglary, as any Thief in Christendom. A hopeful Set indeed, to defend this rich and populous City against the Terrors of the Night!”

Public outrage over the conduct of the Rattle-watch during this particular fire was followed by a formalization of Rattle-watch rules.

1776 Plan of the City of New York, showing wards:

The original fire companies were organized according to ward. At the time, Lower Manhattan was divided into the South Ward, Dock Ward, East Ward, Montgomerie Ward, West Ward, and North Ward. According to ward map, St. Paul’s Chapel stood on the northern edge of the West Ward.

St. Paul’s Fire Company

St. Paul’s Chapel was consecrated in 1766. A 1761 city ordinance had instituted tougher fire regulations, but those rules proved expensive and onerous and were suspended until January 1, 1768. St. Paul’s leadership may have planned the fire bucket purchase to comply with the ordinance. This is one possible explanation for why the fire bucket found at St. Paul’s was dated 1768, rather than 1766.

City records from 1768 include a complete list of volunteer firefighters, organized by ward. The Archivist’s Mailbag compared the list of firefighters to the first extant St. Paul’s pew register, which is from 1782. Jacob Roome, foreman of the West Ward company, and John Roome, of the East Ward company, shared pew 79. Were Jacob and John Roome part of the Rev. Inglis’ bucket brigade? Given that St. Paul’s Chapel is located in the West Ward, it’s likely that Jacob Roome, as foreman of the West Ward company, participated in the bucket brigade.

In 1778, John Roome was named fire inspector:

The Roome family played an important role in early fire companies--but they also appear to have been active members of Trinity’s parish. John and Jacob Roome each sponsored several baptisms during the 1780s. Many other Roomes were baptized, married and buried in the parish. There were several Henry Roomes active in firefighting and in parish life in the late 1700s.  In 1756 a Henry Roome married Anne Griggs at Trinity Church, and in 1762 the couple buried two children in Trinity churchyard.  Five nearby graves belong to Griggs and Roome family members. 

Grave of Henry Roome, aged 5, and his sister Sarah Roome, aged 2, both of whom died during the summer of 1762:

Jacob Roome is credited with manufacturing the first American-made fire engine, for Company 1 in Brooklyn in 1785. John P. Roome, likely from a later generation of Roomes, was foreman and assistant engineer of Company 14 from 1808 until 1824. 

Two John P. Roome’s—possibly his sons—died as children and were buried in St. John’s churchyard. (Mary Alice Tisdall, subject of an earlier blog entry, was also buried in St. John's Cemetery.) The churchyard no longer exists; in 1897 it was converted into a park, now known as the James J. Walker Park. A William H. Roome also served in Company 14 in 1788.

Firehouses in the Churchyard

St. Paul's Churchyard as it looked in 1812, showing both Engine Company 14 and Engine Company 39:

Interestingly, Company 14, known as “Columbian,” was headquartered in St. Paul’s Chapel from 1780 until 1812, after which it was located in the churchyard, at the corner of Church and Vesey Streets. Company 39, known as “Franklin” or “Old Skiver,” was headquartered at the opposite side of the churchyard, at the corner of Church and Fulton Streets, from 1812 until 1820.

Drawing of a water-pumping contest between Engine Company 14 and Engine Company 34 held around 1850:

Having fire companies in the churchyard would prove useful, as St. Paul’s Chapel survived several major fires of the nineteenth century. Check back next week for part two of the story of St. Paul’s fire bucket.