Town goes up in flames twice in four decades

Ninety-nine years ago this week, the second major fire in four decades destroyed downtown Paris leaving 5,000 residents of the northeast Texas town homeless. Founded in 1844 on 50 acres donated by a pioneer merchant, the original inhabitants changed the name of the settlement from Pinhook to Paris. On the eve of secession, the community was a cattle and farming center of 700, a figure that more than tripled by 1877. On Aug. 31 of that year, Taylor Pounds argued over money with his stepfather, who ran a saloon on the south side of the square. Angered by Andy Myers’ stubborn refusal to part with a few dollars, Pounds poured a can of coal oil on the floor, tossed a lighted match on the flammable liquid and stalked out of the watering hole. The wooden building that housed the tavern burst into flames that spread swiftly to adjoining structures, also made of wood. With only a small steam pump and water from cisterns, volunteer firefighters never had a chance. Three out of four businesses went up like kindling along with a significant number of private homes before the fire finally burned itself out. Losses were estimated at $500,000 -- a stupendous sum for the times -- with only a pittance covered by insurance. The firebug was found before dark hiding in the tall weeds on a vacant lot. Lynch talk resulted in his transfer to the Fannin County jail at Bonham, a wise precaution that gave his victims a chance to cool off. Pounds’ trial was moved on a change of venue to Cooper, where he was convicted of arson and sentenced to four years in the state penitentiary. But he broke out of jail, escaped across the Red River and never saw the inside of a prison cell. Taylor Pounds was said to have spent the rest of his life as a law-abiding citizen of Ardmore, Oklahoma. No one bothered to bring the fugitive back to Texas to do his time nor did he ever tempt fate by returning to the scene of the crime. Paris rebuilt in less than a year replacing the timber tinderboxes with bricks and mortar. But the disaster of 1916 taught the unlucky town that nothing was fireproof. The blaze began around quitting time on Mar. 21, 1916 near the railroad tracks west of the city. The most popular theory, reported as fact by newspapers around the state, was that sparks from a switch engine ignited dry grass along the right-of-way. Fanned by a strong southeast wind, the insatiable flames consumed a warehouse before the alarm sounded at the fire station a mile away. The raging inferno raced into town scattering the panic-stricken populace and incinerating everything in its path. As soon as the mayor realized the conflagration was out of control, he issued an urgent appeal for help. Hugo, Oklahoma sent a hose wagon that arrived at half past eight, and Bonham dispatched a duplicate that reached the scene at nine. Cooper’s pumper and hose joined the fight at 10 o’clock followed three hours later by a big pumper from Big D. Neither the influx of equipment and manpower nor even dynamite could halt the holocaust. Mere mortals were no match for the relentless wall of flames and the rain of red-hot embers that set wood-shingle roofs on fire blocks in advance. The courthouse caught fire at eight, but the clock continued to strike on the hour until 11 when the hands ceased to move and the works melted. The wind suddenly shifted a little before midnight and blew the firestorm into neighborhoods east of the burned-out business district. At four in the morning, the epic fire was finally put out after 11 hellish hours. The sun rose on smoke-shrouded ruins that looked more like a battlefield than a stricken city. The ferocious fire had burned everything in a funnelshaped area two miles long and a mile across at the widest point. Two hundred and seventy of the 2,500 incorporated acres were a blackened wasteland with only an occasional wall still standing. The people of Paris could hardly believe their eyes. Gone were the courthouse, post office, city hall, central fire station, telephone office, several churches and all but a handful of retail stores. History had repeated itself in the heart of the city, where the damage had been the worst in 1877. The sole survivors of the second fiery act were the Elks lodge and a furniture company. A grand total of 1,440 structures were destroyed. Five thousand men, women and children -- a third of the population -- had no place to live. A train rolled into Paris the next day with seven carloads of food, clothing and tents from Dallas, Ennis, Greenville, Bonham and other charitable locales throughout North Texas. Telephone and telegraph service was restored, and hundreds waited in long lines to place their allotted two-minute call. After letting worried loved ones know they had lived through the Great Fire of 1916, townspeople rolled up their sleeves and went to work. Like a Lone Star phoenix, Paris rose from the ashes one more time. Bartee welcomes your comments and questions at haile@pdq.net or P.O. Box 152, Friendswood, TX 77549 and invites you to visit his web site at barteehaile.com.