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Ms. BALDWIN. Mr. President, I rise today to recognize a grave day in Wisconsin's history, the 150th anniversary of the ``Great Peshtigo Fire.'' On this sesquicentennial anniversary, we remember the great city of Peshtigo, WI, that was completely destroyed on October 8, 1871, in the largest fire in U.S. history.
A community surrounded by dense forest, the city of Peshtigo was first settled in 1838. Located off the western shore of Green Bay in Marinette County, the area was first inhabited by Menominee and Ho- Chunk Native Americans. Sustained by lumber, shipping, and railroad interests, by the end of 1871, it was the tenth largest city in Wisconsin.
Historians and survivors of the fire theorize that the blaze was started by railroad workers who were cutting trees and burning debris outside of Peshtigo. A combination of a prolonged drought, a heavy reliance on wooden buildings, and 100-mph winds aligned to create a firestorm that reached 3 miles across and 1,000 feet high. Over the course of the night, the fire scorched over 1.2 million acres and caused an estimated $169 million in damages. Between 1,200 and 2,500 people lost their lives. The fire's complete destruction of local records prevented an accurate death toll. An estimated 350 victims lie in a mass grave in Peshtigo, victims who could not be identified because they were either burned beyond recognition or because those who could identify them perished, too.
Although the Great Peshtigo Fire has been well documented, little has been written about the crucial role Native Americans played in preventing further loss of life among European settlers. One of the most compelling stories involves Abraham Place, who traveled on foot to Wisconsin from Vermont in 1837 to build a homestead in the Sugar Bush neighborhood just outside of Peshtigo. He married a Menominee woman, and together with their children, they tended one of the largest farms in the area. While marrying a Native-American woman was socially acceptable when Place first settled there, attitudes had changed by 1871, and he was scorned by his fellow settlers.
The Native Americans he regularly welcomed to his home warned him of the impending danger of fire after months of little to no rain and helped him create a 3-foot-deep firebreak around his farm. His European neighbors dismissed his precaution as the actions of a crazy man who had married a Native American. Mrs. Place's in-laws then spent hours placing dozens of wet blankets on the roof of their house to prevent its destruction. Their home was one of the few buildings still standing on the morning of October 9.
Many of the same neighbors who had ridiculed them ran to their house or died trying. Survivors found the bodies of 35 residents who never made it to the farm. The hundred or so refugees who arrived safely at the Place home found a make-shift hospital where they could nurse their wounds and recuperate. Some stayed for weeks, their earlier disdain cured by necessity.
In the days following the Peshtigo fire, survivors emerged from the Peshtigo River and other safe havens untouched by the flames to look for missing loved ones and to begin to rebuild their lives. As word of the devastation spread, donations of food, clothing, and money poured in from across the State, the Nation, and several foreign countries. This selfless, unified show of support empowered the people of Peshtigo to rebuild their homes and restore their community.
Occurring on the same night as the Great Chicago Fire, the Peshtigo fire has been largely forgotten, even though the Wisconsin death toll is estimated to be seven times that of the Chicago tragedy. That is why I join Peshtigo residents in remembering the time when prejudices that turned neighbors into enemies were set aside in the midst of unimaginable hardship. And I applaud their efforts to pause this October 8 to remember this inconceivable catastrophe, commemorate its victims and honor the resilience of those who worked so hard to rebuild this city from the ashes of total devastation into the tranquil community of today.
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