CHAPTER XXIX
A TONGUE OF FIRE
We had reached Union Square on our return to the Committee's headquarters, when the night air burst into a clangor of alarm. There was a sudden chorus of shrieking whistles, a distant tintinnabulation of gongs, and the great bell in the fire house on Brenham Place thrilled the air with its tolling vibrations.
"Box fifty-nine!" cried one of the men who had counted the strokes. "Where's that?"
"It's the Mail docks, I'll bet!" cried another. "They've been threatening to burn 'em."
I turned to look, and the guess was confirmed. A glare of red had flamed up in the southeastern sky, and the fire was already under good headway.
"It's the third alarm," said a sentinel who stood by the corner. "The Committee's been sending men down there already."
The sharp cry of commanding voices echoed from Horticultural Hall, men were climbing into express-wagons and hurrying off on the gallop, and our way was blocked for a minute by a company that marched rapidly out of the building, quickened its pace to a run, and sped down Post Street. Instead of clubs they carried rifles, and I surmised that the armament of the Council of Nine was being turned against the Council's purposes.
Within the hall all was excitement; cries of command rose sharply as companies were assembled by zealous officers, and squads were marching out as rapidly as they could be armed.
William T. Coleman met me by the door of the office.