by Karen Mulvahill
Twelve days into October 1918 and the heat as unbearable as it had been all summer. Leaves scorched, curled and dropped early from maples meant to shade the weather- beaten farmhouse, framed now by barren sticks instead of the usual blazing glory. Empty blue sky eerily vast above yellow corn-stubbled fields, horizon broken by a few silos, their tin roofs pulsing in the heat. The harsh breeze did not relieve the suffocating humidity.
Martin O’Halloran was 17, and he hated farm work. As he pitched hay into the loft, it stuck to his sweaty skin, crawled down the back of his neck, itchy as poison ivy blisters. He paused and wiped this forehead with his handkerchief. Why couldn’t he be more like his brother Sean, who used to bellow “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” while forking hay, as if he were in a dance hall? Since Sean had joined the army and gone to France, Martin felt he was shouldering more than his fair burden of the work around the farm. Michael and Luke, his 15-year-old twin brothers, always managed to wriggle out of chores and disappear. Gerry, at eleven, was too young to do much other than feed the chickens; and, besides, he was still in school most of the year. Pa’s presence was sporadic and only made things worse.
Martin took a swig of tepid water from his canteen and looked out over the countryside. The 40-acre farm was bordered to the east by the Lindstroms and to the west by the Chauvettes. A vast swatch of logged-out land lay across the road, ragged with stumps and strewn with slash, bark, and golden needles. To the south, the virgin forests stood doomed to feed the saws.
As Martin lifted another forkful of hay, the door of the hayloft blew off and Ma came from where she’d been clipping sheets to the clothesline to help him put it back on. She’d shriveled in the heat to an empty husk; her calico dress clung to her like withered skin. Her straw-blond hair was damp and her faded blue eyes strained against the sun. She’d come from Sweden to work in Duluth, where she’d met Pa, an Irish raconteur with thick wavy black hair and hands that were never still. Pa stood out among the local Swedes who were taciturn, practical and pale. Ma hadn’t noticed that his hands often held a glass of beer or whiskey. He wooed her and won her and his hands remained best suited for drinking and telling stories. She prayed for him at the Lutheran church in Cloquet but kept her lips pressed tightly shut the rest of the time.
As Ma helped Martin struggle with the hayloft door, their neighbor Casey rode by and yelled from the road. “Ain’t no use putting that back, it’ll be ashes in a few hours,” he said, before he snapped the reins and continued on. “What did he mean by that?” Martin asked Ma. “Oh you know Casey. He’s probably been bending his elbow in town, as usual.”
Although curls of smoke appeared in the distance, they were common at this time of year and caused little concern in the farming community. Sparks from a passing train often set fire to a stack of logs along a railroad siding. A crew from the Northern Lumber Company patrolled the rail lines and doused fires as they were discovered. The one at Mile 62 of the Soo Line had started the day before and the crew had worked on it before being called off to fight a more serious fire.
Once the hayloft door was back in place, Martin imagined cooling his itchy body with a swim. Just last year he and his brothers had often ended the work day by plunging from a rope into the pond, but that felt like a lifetime ago. The swimming hole was now just a patch of parched earth. Even the well water was lukewarm and brackish. The barn reeked of dank hay, animal sweat, pine and leather. No air stirred the dust motes that drifted in the narrow shafts of light between the siding. Still, this is where Martin sketched. Here, where he was unlikely to be bothered; here, with the soft neighing of Petunia as she nuzzled his ear; here, where he could escape the stifling predictability of his life as a farmer. His brothers and his Pa scoffed at his pastime. It was unmanly. It took time away from farm chores. It did not bring in any money.
#
His back against the warm planks, Martin balanced his sketchbook on his knees and with quick pencil strokes brought to life old Per Jonsson on the stoop of his grocery, Ma at the stove, Petunia in her stall. He sketched the logging camp, scruffy men on each end of a two-handled saw. He sketched Pa in a field of corn, crockery jug to hi lips.
Intent on capturing the pond as he remembered it, Gerry dropping from the rope, Martin didn’t hear the board squeak, didn’t look up until Petunia snorted. Pa stood over him red-faced, fists clenched at his sides. “I thought I might find you here, you good-for-nothing lazy bum!” As Martin jumped to his feet, he dropped the sketchbook and pencil. Pa lunged for the book and flipped through it.
“I suppose you think you’re better ’n the rest of us.” Pa’s words slid together, almost unintelligible. “Uh uh. No son of mine gonna prance ’round here like a pansy boy with a paint brush. Long as I feed you and I put goddamn clothes on your back, you do what I say. You, my son, are a farmer, not an artiste.” Martin reached for the notebook, but Pa jerked it back. “Go on, do as I tell ya, git in the house and help your Ma.”
Pa muttered and swore as he followed Martin to the back door. Ma stood in front of the iron stove boiling potatoes. Pa pushed past Martin, shoved Ma aside and openedthe door to the oven. Hot as it was standing in front of the open oven, the smothering heat like a wall outside the open kitchen door, Martin felt a cold sweat break out along his hairline. Ma clutched Pa’s sleeve, but Martin could not move. Pa flung the sketchbook onto the red embers, where its pages scorched and curled and suddenly caught fire. He slammed the door shut and turned, grinning.
That triumphant grin released something in Martin. The years of Pa’s insults, the work that fell upon Martin’s shoulders, Ma’s tightly pressed lips, Sean’s escape to France. As if he were someone else, Martin cocked his arm back and let loose a punch that landed in Pa’s face. As Pa fell to the floor, Martin ran outside, ran past the barn, ran past the chicken coop and the shorn cornfield, wishing he could run all the way to France and join Sean.
#
Martin woke among the pines behind the farm. The sweet spicy scent of the needles that had softened his fall soothed him. It was cool there in the ancient shade of the red- barked spires that tamed the wind to whisper. He heard music. No, not music, but his name sung in Ma’s clear soprano. Martin sat up slowly, grasped a handful of needles and put them in his pocket. When he reached the house, Ma put a hand on his shoulder and said tersely, “He’s gone,” her way of apologizing for Pa’s behavior. Then she gave him a list and asked him to take the wagon into Cloquet for supplies.
Cloquet had sprung up after the timber companies logged out Wisconsin and moved west. The town bragged of being The White Pine Capital of the World with no sense of irony that their chief industry was to eradicate white pine. Black smoke billowed from the stack of the Northwestern Paper Mill. Saws ripped logs at the mills along the St. Louis River and screeched like the high notes of untuned violins. The scent of freshly cut pine overpowered the less pleasant smells of the timber industry.
Petunia pulled the wagon along plank streets bordered by wooden walks and frame buildings. Company houses, small wooden structures with tiny front yards, lined the side streets. As the elevation of the town increased, so did the stature and living quarters of its residents, the mansions of Chestnut Hill belonging to the town’s lumber barons, doctors and bankers. Past Grunig’s Meat Market, past the feed store, past the Hotel Cloquet and the Cloquet National Bank the wagon rolled. Past St. Mary’s, where all the boys had been baptized. Past a team of horses yoked to a fire wagon in front of the huge square doors of the new fire station. Past The Pine Knot, which the boys scoured eagerly each week for the latest baseball box scores and batting averages of their favorite players. Today’s front page, pasted in the window, proclaimed “ALLIES CONTINUE ADVANCE.” A side column announced, “FLU OUTBREAK: DULUTH BANS PUBLIC GATHERINGS.”
In front of Jonsson’s General Store, a motley assortment of farmers, tradesmen and lumberjacks lounged on the wide wooden porch. Erik Lindstrom had his usual cigar crammed into the side of his mouth. Sean used to joke that it was always the same cigar because it was never lit and forever the same chewed-off length. But it didn’t impede his ability to spout off opinions. “Yah, it’s drier than a popcorn fart, eh? Never seen it like this before.”
Martin stepped over Bud, the hound that Mr. Jonsson often let him borrow to go rabbit hunting. He reached down to scratch the dog between his ears, then approached the counter. The smells of sausages and pickles and cheeses and coffee set his stomach rumbling. He pulled Ma’s list out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Mr. Jonsson. While Mr. Jonsson took things from the shelves and bagged them, Martin walked with studied casualness through the store. Mr. Jonsson looked up. “Can I help you find something?” Martin shook his head. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to say it out loud.
He walked past tin pots and pans, enameled mugs and plates. He wandered past the shotguns and coffee grinders. He fingered a soft clean apron, thinking of Ma. But then he saw the stack of notebooks, some with lined pages, some with blank. He opened one that had clean white pages and ran his fingers over the smooth paper, recalling Pa’s words. “You, my son, are a farmer, not an artiste.” Mr. Jonsson had finished bagging his order and waited. “Is there anything else?” Martin closed the notebook firmly and took it to the counter.
By the time Martin got home, the horizon was a gray smudge, the morning’s blue sky a blur. Strong gusts of wind blew soot into his eyes. He was in back of the house unloading the wagon when Casey and his brother drove up, pulling a wagon loaded with household goods. “Better get outta here,” Casey shouted. “The fire’s already at our place and it’s goin’ hell for leather.” Ma stood in the doorway holding a mug of coffee. She looked at the sky as if just noticing that the earlier curls of smoke had become billows. “Martin,” she said, as the mug clattered to the floor, “Go get the boys from the potato field. Quick!”
Ma was packing the wagon when Martin returned with his brothers. Bedding, pillowcases stuffed with clothing, the family Bible, a framed photo of Sweden’s King Olaf, the coffee pot, Sean’s baseball mitt. Flames suddenly appeared in the southern sky and the wind roared like thunder. Ma and the boys settled in the back of the wagonas Martin took the reins. Petunia’s flanks glistened with sweat as she labored to pull the heavy load. Balls of fire shot over their heads and lit the trees ahead of them. Martin’s eyes watered and he wiped them with his shirtsleeve as he drove. When they approached the ravine, he could see the timbers supporting the bridge burning. The fire had not reached the roadbed yet, but it soon would. Should he ask Ma what to do? He looked back. Ma’s eyes were shut. A drift of ash grayed her hair and he squint accentuated the lines just beginning to form around her eyes and mouth. Michael sat next to her with his arm around her, his mouth set in a grim line. On the other side, Luke sat hunched over Gerry, who was wide-eyed, mouth open, holding tight to the side of the wagon as Petunia swerved to miss the chunks of wood that fell from the sky.
Martin stopped the wagon. The deafening wind propelled the inferno forward. Turning back was impossible and the next nearest crossing was two miles away. The situation there could be the same or even worse. What would Sean do? Martin snapped the reins briskly and screamed, “Giddy-up Petunia!”
#
The chaos in the cavernous space overwhelmed him. The drill hall of The Duluth Armory was filled with rows of cots extending the full length of its 200 feet. People stood in groups or lay on cots. Most wore soot-stained clothes and blank expressions. The cacophony was amplified as it lifted and echoed off the high ceiling. Despite the open windows, it was unbearably hot. Martin’s shirt stuck to his back and he inhaled the sour
straw smell of his own sweat and the overpowering mustiness of unwashed bodies and desperation. The O’Hallorans stood tightly together, like the still space at the center of a hurricane. Martin had used up every last bit of energy and will and thought he might just stand there until he fell over. But a Red Cross nurse wearing a white face mask approached and led them to a table. Martin answered her questions and registered the family, then settled Ma and his brothers on their assigned cots.
Gerry sniffled. Martin sat next to him and ruffled his hair, then reached around and squeezed him tight. “Hey, Ger, everything’s gonna be okay. We’re safe here.” He reached into the knapsack he had grabbed from beneath his bed before fleeing the far and pulled out the candy he’d bought at Jonsson’s. “Here, take this, but don’t eat it all at once.”
Gerry reached for the candy but continued his ragged breathing. “Where’s Pan “Pa will be fine. You know he’s like a cat with nine lives. Like as not he’ll show up here any minute.”
Gerry took a deep breath and peeled the wrapper off one of the candies. “Will we get Petunia back?” They had unhitched Petunia from the wagon when they’d reached safety, hoping she would find water and rest. “I’m sure Petunia’s fine. We’ll find her tomorrow. I’m going to walk around a bit now and look for Pa. Why don’t you lie down and rest?” Gerry nodded and slid down on the cot. Ma was already lying down with her arm over her eyes. Michael and Luke had taken off ten seconds after they’d claimed their cots, no doubt to look for girls, Martin thought.
Erik Lindstrom stood at the end of a long row of cots. Per Jonsson was there, too, as were many of the usuals from the porch of the General Store. Martin stood at the edge of the group. The men were angry at someone Martin didn’t recognize. You work for the railroad, they were saying, this is all their fault. The men shifted back and forth and encircled the railroad man, who held up his hands. Someone asked what had happened to the screens that were supposed to be on the smokestacks. The railroad man protested that if it hadn’t been for the railroad sending its boxcars out to evacuat people, most of those at the Armory would be dead. Erik Lindstrom spit and said he might not be dead now but would be soon enough if he had no farm nor food to make it through the winter. One of the lumberjacks wondered it all hadn’t burned sooner, there was so much dried up fuel out there. He said they were supposed to rake and burn the slash after a cut but were usually told to leave it ’cause the company needed another tract cleared. It’s all about company profits, shouted another man. They continued to argue as Martin moved away.
He opened his new notebook and began to sketch. He sketched the sooty defeated faces of families who had lost everything in an instant. He sketched mothers comforting their frightened children, fathers wearing unaccustomed looks of helplessness. They were young, they were old, they were robust, they were weak, they were lumbermen, railroad men, merchants, bankers, cooks and cleaners. They were from Cloquet and Carlton and Moose Lake and Kettle River and Brookston, the places they called home that had been incinerated in a matter of minutes. Martin did more than sketch the survivors, he sketched their stories:
Karin Lindstrom huddled in a small lake in a Cloquet park with her three children near a herd of deer while the fire raged around them.
The Holtons, who threw themselves down in the middle of the road next to the rabbits that had fled the burning woods.
The Andersons in their boat in the middle of Pike Lake riding huge waves whipped up by the wind that sank many others.
Carl Toivela and his family sitting in the center of a plowed field while cinders rained down.
The Kalevas clinging to the ladder lowered into their well.
Gus Maki peering out from a culvert beneath the road.
#
Martin stood in front of the sandstone building, clutching his notebook to his chest. Large letters above the door proclaimed The Duluth Observer. Through the windows he saw desks and typewriters and men in white shirts moving around, smoking, talking and reading newspapers. Hanging across the top of the window was a large banner that read “Seek the Truth.” Martin felt a chill go up his spine. He walked through the door
The editor—Just call me Thompson, he’d said—flipped through Martin’s notebook, stopping now and then to examine a drawing. “I’ll give you $3 for every one we print. Can you get out of Duluth, back over toward Carlton and Cloquet and draw what you see out there? People want to know if there’s anything left to go home to.”
Martin froze. He couldn’t say anything while he did math in his head. A single drawing paid more than an entire day harvesting timber. Six drawings were worth more than Sean’s monthly army pay. Misjudging his hesitation for negotiation, Thompson upped his offer to $4. Martin began nodding his head until his voice caught up with it. “Great…fine…yes. I’ll get out there as soon as possible.” Thompson reached into a side drawer and pulled out two ten-dollar bills. “Can I hang on to this sketchbook for a couple days? We’ll have to decide which ones we want to run with, but this will cover five of them to start with.
Martin pocketed the money, more than he had ever held at one time before. Outside the newspaper office, he leaned against the hot sandstone, fingered the money. A slow grin spread across his face. A sudden sense of freedom rose up through his chest. He’d give Ma most of the money, but first he’d find a shop and buy a new notebook.
Epilogue
Fifty years ago today The Great Fire incinerated 250,000 acres of Minnesotan farmland, forests and towns. I wrote this story about Martin O’Halloran because he was my big brother and my idol and because he saved our lives that day.
After we settled in at the Armory, Martin went out and found Petunia up on Chestnut Hill munching on the finest grass of the richest people. He rode Petunia back to Cloquet and the farm. Cloquet had been incinerated except for a building or two and the farm was completely gone. We had no money, so that was the end of farming forthe O’Hallorans.
We never did find Pa. I was probably the only one who missed him, having been too young to be the target of his rages. The money Martin earned from his drawings got us through the winter, and then the family split up. Michael and Luke moved to Detroit, got jobs in a factory, married and raised families. Inspired by Martin, I got a job as a copy boy at the Duluth Observer and worked my way up to staff writer. I bought a small house and Ma lived with me until she died, at 91.
Following in Sean’s footsteps, Martin joined the Army. He was sent to Germany as part of the Army of Occupation. He visited and sketched Sean’s grave; we’d learned that he’d died in the Meuse Argonne offensive. Like thousands of other soldiers living in crowded barracks, Martin contracted the Spanish flu. He did not recover.
All these years later, I look back and shake my head at our naiveté. We called the first world war The Great War, its devastation so shocking we believed it to have been “the war to end all wars.” We thought that, too, about The Great Fire, that what we’d learned about its causes would prevent future uncontainable fires.
But what the world actually learned was how to weaponize the power of fire to wage another, even greater, war. Twenty-five years ago, as a soldier in the Army during WWII, I witnessed the aftermath of firestorms unleashed by incendiary bombs that destroyed Warsaw, London, Dresden, Berlin, Tokyo, Hamburg. And then, there was Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Ch’osan. Kointang. Trang Bang….
I have Martin’s final notebook and occasionally leaf through his sketches and imagine him poised over the paper, wetting the tip of his pencil. There’s a drawing of a beautiful Red Cross nurse near the end of the book. I like to think that, before he died,Martin experienced peace and, maybe, love.
Gerald O’Halloran
Staff Writer
The Duluth Observer
October 12, 1968