“Death’s fortress on the lake.” “A death trap.” “Crib of horror.” “Pits of fire and watery graves.”
More than a century ago, a fire more than a mile from shore sent dozens of men jumping into Lake Michigan in a desperate attempt to escape death and harm, only to encounter the same in the lake’s icy waters. The Tribune headlines from the time speak of the nightmare that unfolded when a water crib caught fire, killing scores of men and injuring many more.
Water cribs, which are situated in the lake, are part of a system that collects and supplies the city’s drinking water. The one that caught fire the morning of Jan. 20, 1909, was just a temporary structure in use while a tunnel for water transportation was being built. This “intermediate” crib, about 1.5 miles from the shore around 71st Street on the South Side, was “made of wood, made strong enough to withstand the waves and ice, but in no sense fireproof,” a fact that proved fatal.
Exactly how many men were working in the crib when disaster struck was unclear from the start. The crib had “sleeping and eating accommodations for ninety men. … As a rule, there were eighty men employed there, divided into three shifts, and work went on night and day,” according to the Tribune.
“It is not likely that the exact number of dead will ever be known,” the Tribune reported the day after the disaster. George W. Jackson, president of the company building the tunnel, “furnished the list of seventy-nine names as the roll of the men employed on the crib.” However, 47 bodies had been recovered at that point, while 48 men had been rescued — already surpassing the number of names on the list and the 90-person capacity of the structure.
Those who escaped the fiery crib had to grapple with the icy waters of Lake Michigan while waiting for rescue, and many weren’t fully clothed, as the fire had struck while they were sleeping. The Tribune’s report described the horrifying choice the men faced as the fire spread and panic and confusion sent them scrambling.
“Naked and half clad men fell over each other and fought to get on the outside of the crib. There were only a few windows in the structure and these were jammed with men … clawing and pulling at each other for a chance to jump into the lake and risk death by drowning rather than meet certain death by burning. …
“Of the men who jumped from the second story window, some landed on blocks of ice and for a few minutes were safe. Others struck the water and by desperate swimming reached blocks of ice, on which they finally clambered after many unsuccessful attempts.”
Even so, some workers drowned or succumbed to the frigid temperature of the water.
From the nearby 68th Street crib, Capt. E.A. Johnson and the crew of the tugboat T.T. Morford sped over when they saw the fire.
“Holding the wheel in person, Capt. Johnson raced the Morford over the heaving water that intervened between the cribs, crashing through the four inch ice floes that almost lifted the tug out of the water,” the Tribune reported.
The tugboat collected dozens of men “in varying degrees of nakedness and terror” from the lake. After dropping off the less seriously injured at a nearby crib, the tugboat headed downtown with the men whose conditions were more dire.
“Arrangements were made by telephone so that ambulances and blankets might be in waiting at the Wells street bridge,” the Tribune reported. “With every ounce of steam pounding the pistons the craft plowed up the river and under the bridges half an hour after leaving the crib.”
As the Morford headed downtown, fire boats headed toward the crib. The telephone call that sent responders to the scene was a “frenzied” message from within the crib:
“The crib is on fire. For God’s sake send help at once or a dozen or more of us will be burned alive. The tug —”
The call broke off at that point.
The coroner’s jury later put the number of dead at 60, though some estimates went as high as 70.
The city, of course, was no stranger to a staggering loss of life due to fire. The Great Chicago Fire had devastated the city only 38 years before, but even more top of mind for Chicagoans was the Iroquois Theater disaster that killed about 600 people after a fire broke out in a packed theater in 1903.
So it was no surprise that thousands turned out for “the largest public burial in the history of South Chicago,” which was held a few days after the fire. “The business houses were closed, and the entire population not at work in the factories was on hand to give a token of respect to those left in a moment without father, or husband, or friend.”
“It was decided to bury all forty-seven dead bodies on the same day in a plot of ground to be purchased by Mr. Jackson,” the Tribune reported.
“Forty-seven hearses, each bearing a part of what three days ago was a strong man, moved through the streets of South Chicago” to a plot at Mount Greenwood Cemetery, according to the Tribune. “The bodies were laid away in rows in a single cellarlike grave.”
A small memorial plaque to this day marks the common grave. It reads, “In memory of crib fire,” though it notes “45 unknown men” were laid to rest there, not 47.
Part of the reason for the discrepancy and the decision to conduct a mass burial was the condition most of the bodies were in. “The impossibility of identification simplified the work of the police in keeping back the inquirers after missing friends and relatives. ‘There is no hope of your knowing father, son, or brother,’ was the set reply of the police stationed at the doors” of the coroner’s office, when relatives came to ask about the remains of their loved ones, the Tribune reported.
After the funeral, attention shifted toward who to blame for the disaster. Theories ran rampant. One was that gasoline had been used to try to control a bedbug infestation in the crib. A “workman with the idea of abating the nuisance had secured gasoline and poured it into the cracks. The gasoline in some way … became ignited, with the result that the whole structure burst into flame.”
Another theory, personally held by Jackson, the tunneling company president, was “that the fire was caused by an employee smoking in the sleeping rooms, which was against the rules. All agree that the first smoke was seen coming from the bunkroom.”
Yet another theory was that a careless employee dropped a torch in a room where dynamite was being stored.
Nathan Fultz, “the last man taken out alive from the tunnel under the lake,” denied throughout the investigation that he had caused the fire, and he was later cleared of any wrongdoing.
The investigation also found that the fire started “without any explosion” because the dynamite for some reason did not detonate. However, concerns were raised about the dangerous amount of explosives kept in the crib, with some workers claiming there were 3 tons of dynamite being stored there, though the company denied this and said only 800 pounds — “a day’s supply” — was in the structure.
Among the other findings of the coroner’s jury were that the workers had not been trained what to do in case of a fire, there were no boats or life rafts and there were only 12 or 15 life preservers on the crib.
The paper and the public expected the coroner’s jury to “hold the Jackson company responsible for the loss of sixty lives and that its findings will charge that nearly every law governing the operation of the crib as a lodging house for men and as a storage place for dynamite was violated by the Jackson company.”
In the end, however, the jury was unable to determine the cause of the fire and ended up exonerating the company, and the city, from the charge of criminal carelessness.
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