"We Knew We Were Doomed"
From the October 1981 issue of Yankee.
Brownfield is in the foothills of the White Mountains where the Saco River runs through a wide, sandy valley on its way to the sea. It is an area of much natural beauty, enclosed by the forested mountains of the Presidential Range, with gently rolling uplands, and ponds and streams running through wide meadows. The town sits in a valley beside Shepard's River, a tributary of the Saco, sheltered on the north by Frost Mountain and on the south by the Burnt Meadow Mountains. To the north of the town of Fryeburg, to the east Denmark and Hiram, to the south Porter, and to the west the New Hampshire state line.
In 1947 its population of about 750 lived in two small villages, Brownfield Center and East Brownfield, and on scattered out-lying farms. Its village streets were lined with elm trees. Many of its houses were more than 100 years old, and at least one, the old Ichabod Merrill place, a Cap Cod cottage, was thought to be nearly 200.
Perhaps the grandest house in town was the Stickney Mansion, a 147- year-old white Colonial with a sunburst fanlight over the front door. It stood about 100 yards east of the historic Pequawket Trail, a path that tradition says' had been used by the Indians. The house had "Indian shutters," and large fireplaces, and was filled with antiques and treasures gathered over the years by its well-traveled owners.
One of Brownfield's most interesting houses, The Sundial House, was a 14-room, two-and-a-half-story frame building with an ell and barn. A large wooden sundial mounted over the front door was known to have been in place as early as 1824. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Harmon, took pride in the two-foot-wide clear pine boards on the floor of the master bedroom and the big old pine beams that had taken on the gleam and almost the color of mahogany. The house had been owned by Mrs. Harmon's family for generations.
Brownfield was mainly a farming community, although it had four sawmills, a one-man baseball-bat-making business, and a one-man wood-turning business. It had an inn, three stores, three garages, the usual public buildings—schools, churches, a town hall, and, at East Brownfield, a railroad station. It was a nice little town, and just that. There wasn't anything special about Brownfield unless your roots were there. Its history paralleled that of all the neighboring towns. It had no famous native sons. (Dr. Philo Farnsworth, a pioneer in the field of television, spent his summers in Brownfield, but he had been born in Utah.) Its houses were not architecturally unique; houses like them were scattered all aver Maine. Brownfield was just a typical Maine town. That was its charm.
On Tuesday, October 21st, the day the week-old ground fire in Fryeburg's Oak Hill section finally got away from the patrols set to watch it, Esther Boynton of Brownfield Center had taken her crewel work to a friend's house. It was a hot day, and the two women sat on the porch sewing. Looking north, they saw a trickle of smoke going up against the sky. As the afternoon wore on they watched it, and when a power line crew came by, Esther called to them, "Where's the fire, and how big is it?" It was, the men said, in Fryeburg, and while they didn't think it was "too bad," conditions were "awful dry."
The fire, fanned by a strong wind, was primarily a ground fire, burning in berry bushes, slash, and scrub oak. The Fryeburg Fire Department had called in help from Brownfield and Denmark. District Warden Carleton Merrill, who had been alerted by the Pleasant Mountain watchman, was there to help and had brought a 1,000-gallon tank truck. He had come upon the truck at a road construction site on his way to the fire. It was hauling water to wet dawn the dust on the road. Merrill had told the driver that the water might be needed at the fire.
The fire was fought in the usual way, with hand tools and portable tanks. Fryeburg had a tank truck and a booster tank. Brownfield had a couple of portable pumps and same hose. A bulldozer was brought in. The fire was brought under control shortly after dark when the wind fell.
During the evening most of the firefighters went home, confident that the situation was well in hand. But that night at 1 A.M. the people of Fryeburg were awakened by the continuous blowing of the village fire siren. The wind had come up again, fanning the edges of the burn, bringing the fire to life. Returning firefighters found that the flames had gained headway in all directions, and that help had been sent far from Hiram. Before Wednesday was over Lovell, Harrison, and Porter would also send men and equipment.
All day Wednesday they battled the fire with limited success. A crew would think it had a section under control only to discover that the fire had burned underground in road systems and came up outside the line they were holding. The work was made difficult by the tenacity of the fire and the size of the burn, and the lack of coordination among the fire companies.
That day about 2,000 more acres burned over. Even a swamp, which was still wet, failed to slow the fire. By late evening it had been contained again, but now it was at the edge of Brownfield.
Wildfire is no respecter of town lines. The Brownfield firemen wanted to backfire and some of the others agreed it should be done. Others did not. It was finally decided that a backfire should be set at daybreak along the Brownfield Road (Route 113). All night long pumpers from several towns wet down both sides of the road from treetop to ground. At daybreak the decision was made not to backfire.
The wind was changeable that day. It began in the southwest and kept swinging. About 9:30 in the morning it really began to blow, whipping the fire into new fury. During the morning it pushed the fire toward Fryeburg village. But by eleven o'clock the wind had swung west and was driving the main fire back toward the Brownfield Road. Four fire companies with pumpers were stationed there, but the wind carried the fire across the road and toward the Saco River. An attempt was made to drive it to Lovewell's Pond, but when it was clear that this would fail, men from the town of Denmark were sent to try to keep it from reaching the river where it might jump across, endangering their town. The fire raced before the wind, burning faster than a man could run through the tall, dry marsh grass on the bank of the river. By the time the Denmark men reached the river, the fire was already on the other side.
In Brownfield Center Esther Boynton had begun to fuss. She had grown up in Thomaston on the coast, and was wise to the ways of wind. "When it comes afternoon the wind's going to change," she told her husband, Guy. "That fire's coming back here."
"Oh, don't be foolish. You know better'n that," he said.
"I tell you the wind'll change. Will you take those oxen out and plow around this field. Plow ten rows, ten furrows at least. And then you go down on the Intervale and plow that whole thing up. Get one of the neighbors to hold the plow. Why those oxen will almost go themselves."
"It would only make a mess. All that land would only have to be laid down again."
"I don't care. You do it." Guy was not convinced.
The wind shifted suddenly. It swung to the north, and the fire, which had been traveling hard and fast, held a moment, then turned, crowned, and headed for Brownfield. A frantic attempt was made to gather men and equipment from the now less critical Fryeburg fire fronts.
The fire burned along the ground almost as fast as it burned in the crowns of the trees. Fields and roads were not barriers—they were no obstacle to a fire that could jump a river. The wind scattered embers for a quarter of a mile, and blew jump fires as much as a mile ahead of the main fire. The firefighters retreated and made a stand, retreated and made a stand, until it was clear that nothing they could do would stop the fire.
By mid-afternoon a mass evacuation of East Brownfield and Brownfield Center was under way. Cars, trucks, wagons, even wheelbarrows were hastily loaded with mattresses, tables, mirrors, tools, and clothing. Possessions were left behind to make room in a car for neighbors without transportation. Livestock was turned loose or herded down the already clogged roads to Hiram and Cornish, South Hiram, Porter, and New Hampshire. Overhead the sun behind the smoke looked like a full harvest moon.
Charlie Harman was one of the men who pulled back to help with the evacuation when it was obvious they could not stop the fire. As the afternoon wore on they thought the worst might be over and Brownfield might be spared. "Then up through the valley came great clouds of smoke ... and then flames. The fire was everywhere at once. One minute [there was only the] dense smoke to which [they] had become accustomed; the next minute flames and searing heat [were] everywhere. It was unbelievable."
Word came that East Brownfield was burning, and the fire was traveling up the valley. Brownfield Center would be next. Esther Boynton remembers, "Finally it was dusk … I can't place the time ... and we knew we were doomed."
Guy and Esther picked up a few clothes, a few things around the house, but, Esther said later, "I did a dumb thing: I took good things and left ordinary things." After the fire she was to regret that she took pieces of silver and china and left behind her favorite wooden spoon, the black "spider," the cooking dishes she used every day.
The last thing she did before leaving was to walk through the house. It had been their home for 17 years, since they had been burned out of their first house. They had worked hard, raising most of their food, keeping cows and pigs. Guy had worked in the woods during the winter months, and at last, just this year, they had decided they could afford to make some improvements. During the summer Guy had gone into his woods and marked for cutting those trees that were tall enough and large enough to replace the old, rotted sills under the house.
Esther walked through the house. She didn't try to gather up the loved books like Holman Day's Up In Maine ... how she did love to read aloud the poem "Aunt Shaw's Pet Jug." She left behind all the pieces of crewel and cross-stitch she had worked over the years. She knew she was seeing for the last time the furniture that she had helped save in 1930 when their first home burned. Nothing would survive this time. She and Guy knew there was no way the fire would miss their farm, which was at the end of the village street, pocketed by hills. The house and everything in it — the books, the handwork, the furniture, dishes, the bushels of potatoes, the jars and jars of fruit and vegetables and all the other food she had stored in the cellar — would be consumed by the flames. When she went out to get into the car, she didn't even close the door behind her.
Standing by the car she heard Guy go into the barn, which stood near the house. Earlier he had brought their oxen and cows in from pasture and shut them up there. Now he took a lash whip and drove the frightened cattle out of the barn where they wanted to cower, but where he knew they would have no chance of survival. He drove them out with the whip, shutting the barn doors behind them. Esther heard him say, with emotion in his voice, "That's all I can do for you, I hope to God you can take care of yourselves." In the pasture there was a brook. Perhaps they could find safety near it. Calling to their dog, Esther and Guy climbed into the car and drove away.
The fire had burst from the wooded foothills into the valley where the houses of East Brownfield and Brownfield Center were clustered. There were fewer trees in the valley, but the fire spread. The wind carried burning pine boughs and shingles to the roofs of houses. As the fire burned its way through the valley, building up great levels of heat, houses exploded. As a house and the trees near it burned, another house nearby would suddenly explode into flames the way a ball of paper tossed into a fireplace, and falling just short of the burning logs, will suddenly burst into flame, hot enough at last to burn.
Some houses burned from the ground up, grass fire catching in clapboards close to the ground. Trees, picket fences, telephone and utility poles caught fire. As the poles fell, pulling the wires behind them, the snapping and cracking of the breaking lines could be heard over the roaring of the fire.
Most of the people of Brownfield fled, but a few homeowners and one or two valiant fire fighting crews stayed, and they were able to save a few houses. Perley Walker, a Chevrolet dealer in East Brownfield stayed to try to save his garage and his house across the street. Using wet burlap bags and brooms he and one other man saved his buildings. They were the only two to survive in East Brownfield.
In Brownfield Center, the Harrison Fire Department, drawing water from Shepard's River, saved some houses. Another group of four houses near the river was saved by four men with a pumper and four ladders. They went from house to house putting out fires. But in all only 20 houses survived in Brownfield Center. The Boyntons' was not one of them.
By the time the fire had passed, moving on toward Porter and Hiram, 75 percent of Brownfield's taxable property had been destroyed. Among the houses lost were The Sundial House and the Stickney Mansion. The Farnsworth place, and $75,000 worth of electronic equipment, were gone. Every public building — the churches, the schools, the post office, the Grange Hall, the library, the Town Hall — had been left a pile of rubble and ashes.
Reporter Robert Crocker drove through Brownfield that night. He found what had been a pretty little town now a deserted wasteland of scorched ruins. By the flickering light of burning debris, he saw one old man "walking with his dog down streets littered with fallen wires, peering into the yellow heat" of cellar holes. Two horses plodded unattended down the road. Cows standing in a blackened pasture lowed fitfully. Half-burned telephone poles and trees still smoldered, and here and there he saw a dead rabbit and the scorched carcass of a pig.
Reporters who came the next day and the day after described Brownfield's blackened chimneys, burned-out farm equipment, elms still standing but with the bark peeled away by the intense heat of the fire. "This," wrote Franklin Wright for the Portland Sunday Telegram, "was scorched earth at its worst. Virtually nothing was spared."
That night to the west toward Hiram, Cornish, and Limerick every ridge was outlined in dull red by the fire, which had raced on. The warden in the tower on Pleasant Mountain watched the fire all night. In the dark the smoke cover above it looked like a black lake. Now and then the flames would boil up through the smoke like lava welling out of a volcano, and sometimes it would look as though great balls of fire were leaping right out of the earth.
At Hiram, men who had fought to keep the fire out of Brownfield now tried to keep it out of Hiram village. Some houses had already burned near the town line. The firefighters organized themselves well. Men from Denmark were stationed on the northeast side of town, Baldwin on the east, Cornish on the south, Fryeburg and wardens from New Hampshire on the west, Kezar Falls on the northwest. Men from Baldwin and Sebago went up Rattlesnake Mountain above the village and split the fire as it came over, making it more manageable. Although 11,000 acres, 37 houses, and one sawmill burned, the firefighters' coordinated effort and a competently handled backfire saved Hiram village.
On that same day and night in neighboring York County a score of towns were under siege. Some, like Hiram, came through with the loss of only a few houses; others, like Brownfield, went down to the flames.
