The recent, terrifying conflagration in Boston’s East End brings to mind the Hub’s worst fire inferno ? on November 9, 1872.

That was when the core of the city, from Tremont Street to the waterfront, was torched from the face of the Earth. The murky glow could be seen for miles around. Crowds gathered on Union Hill in Worcester to stare toward the east, wondering what was happening and where. Westboro? Framingham? Ships off the Maine coast were wondering the same thing.

The truth came to Worcester when the telegraph clicked out an alarming message to Worcester fire headquarters ? “Boston is burning up ? Need help” The message went out to dozens of police and fire departments around New England, to Providence, Manchester, New Haven and several others.

The fire had started in a dry goods store on Summer Street and roared through the elevator shaft. By the time the firefighters arrived, the wooden building was a tower of flame. In those days before the dams at Wachusett and Quabbiin were even thought of, water pressure was feeble.

Even worse, the city’s 5,000 horses were out of commission because of an epidemic of glanders ? a debilitating equine affliction. Firefighters tried their best to roll their pumpers into position by sheer manpower, but it was a losing struggle. The inferno roared on, consuming everything in its path. Buildings housing the Boston Globe, the Boston Herald and Shreve, Crump & Low disappeared in the smoke. Gas lines exploded. Crowds clustered on Boston Common to watch the frightful scene. The tumult can be imagined.

In the meantime, Worcester and other outlying communities were on their way. At the Worcester railyard a pumper was loaded onto a flatbed car and steam was blasted into the air as the firefighters shoveled on the coal. By Westboro it had reached a estimated 70 to 80 miles an hour and it arrived in Boston within 47 minutes ? a record that stood for years.

The Worcester crew faced a daunting prospect. Downtown Boston east of Tremont Street lay in smoky ruins, and fires were still advancing. With the gas cut off, the only light came from torches and the ominous glow from the blazing fires. At the waterfront, huge piles of stockpiled coal burned and would continue burning for weeks.

Firefighters muscled the horseless pumpers and firetrucks into place along Washington Street. Thunderous explosions jarred the night, some from leaking gas lines, others purposely set to counter the encroaching inferno. Days would pass before the blazes were completely stamped out.

Martial law was declared as looters swarmed over the smoking ruins seeking whatever they could find and carry away. In the following days, more than 400 were arrested for looting.

The damage was estimated at more then $150 million, an enormous sum for that era. Comparisons were made with the huge Chicago fire, which had ravaged the Windy City just a year before. There were differences. In Chicago a much larger area was incinerated, including acres of shantytowns. Boston’s fire was more contained ? about 70 acres, But more than 700 buildings were destroyed in the black, smoking hole.

Seven banks, two newspapers and hundreds of businesses were lost. Firefighters were just barely able to save the old Statehouse. About 30 perished ? compared to more than 200 in Chicago.

Because there was no food available, Firefighters ? and others ? drank whisky straight from the bottle. One report had it that “By four in the morning almost all the police, firemen and onlookers were a little or a lot drunk, some to the point of insensibility.”

The ire was horrendous but the recovery was remarkable. Fundraisers were organized. Help poured in. Citizens of Chicago contributed $50,000. Recovery took little more than two years ? a remarkable accomplishment.

And Boston learned an important lesson. Having suffered several destructive fires over the years ? in 1861, 1862, 1870 and 1872, it adopted new building restrictions. Mansard roofs, deemed fire hazards, were prohibited.

And the firefighters from Worcester?

We lack personal accounts. We do know that one man from Worcester? perhaps a volunteer ? died somewhere in that murky nightmare. And I am willing to bet that those who were on that speeding flatbed through the dark towns that night never forgot it.

 - Albert B. Southwick's columns appear regularly in the Telegram & Gazette.