COURTESY HEINZ HISTORY CENTER ARCHIVES

It’s just a small square tablet of text.

Etched a century ago and embedded into a wall along Smithfield Street, it’s now weathered and worn. It sits about eye-level for the average adult but goes unnoticed by most who scurry past on their way to a job, a bus or a sporting event.

Besides, why would anyone look? There’s no eye-beckoning illustration accompanying its rather unexciting words: “These buildings form the bordering line of the burnt district of April 10th 1845.”

Snooze.

That inconspicuous tablet is not just an ignored reminder of arguably the most destructive day in Pittsburgh’s history. More poetically, it’s a commemoration of something worth remembering — the birth of our civic character.

Gazing on the confluence from above in 1845, you’d have seen the rivers crowded with hundreds of boats, a new suspension bridge spanning the Monongahela and riverbanks lined with factories and warehouses — beyond which were neatish squares of homes, shops, schools and churches. Pittsburgh was noted for its smoky atmosphere as far back as 1810, so one must wonder how long it took on that sunny April day for residents to realize that those first wisps of fiery air weren’t generated from something being created, but rather from something being destroyed.

The blaze that would become the Great Fire of 1845 began around noon near Second and Ferry streets (about where Boulevard of the Allies intersects Stanwix today). Weeks of dry weather and a gusty wind encouraged the first sparks to become a roaring monster of flame that jumped across streets, gathering strength and fuel for a relentless march toward the center of the city.

A few hours after the first clang of the fire bell echoed through the triangle, word spread that the flames still raged and were now devouring whole city blocks. Chaos ensued as streets became choked with frantic people, horses, carts and wagons loaded with possessions and wares being moved out of the path of approaching destruction. By early evening, over 20 city blocks encompassing close to 60 acres were burning or in smoldering ruin. Gone, along with close to 1,000 structures, was Western University of Pennsylvania — today’s University of Pittsburgh — and the new Monongahela Bridge, which burnt up in a matter of minutes, not hours. An additional 1,000 structures were damaged.

Personal and property losses stood in the tens of millions, leaving 2,000 families homeless and tens of thousands of survivors needing financial relief. With the homeless outnumbering available shelter, some Pittsburghers slept in the streets with their belongings while small fires burned through the night. Remarkably, only two lives were lost — attorney Samuel Kingston, who died in his home, and a Mrs. Maglone or Malone (depending on which record you check), last seen near a market house where burned remains were eventually found.

Even as the final embers were fizzling out, attempts to piece together the origin, cause and timeline were made difficult by shock, fear and rumor among the ruins. Survivors and future historians alike were left to do their best to separate fact from misremembering and outright myth. Today we can speak with some degree of certainty as to most questions surrounding that day — but one that has never been solved, despite claims, is who started the fire. Who was Pittsburgh’s counterpart to Chicago’s Mrs. O’Leary and her notorious fire-starting cow? Who upended all of these lives and livelihoods?

One of the earliest attempts to assign blame came just a few months after the fire in a booklet that claimed the blaze originated on property owned by Capt. William Diehl, “where a woman had carelessly kindled an open fire to heat water to wash.” Contradictory reports claimed the fire started at other structures near the intersection, but history seemed to settle quickly into the careless washerwoman explanation, though she remained nameless.

Twenty-five years later, The Pittsburgh Leader’s retelling of the day switched out the name of the deceased Mrs. Maglone with “Mrs. Brooks.” Separately, in that same article, the editors expressed doubt as to the washerwoman origin story. By 1908, she was still nameless but was reportedly Irish. Come 1945, the Historical Society used the occasion of the centennial anniversary to offer a $50 war bond to anyone who could reveal the identity of the firestarter.

William F. Brophy of Mount Washington wrote in detail of his family’s lore that said his great-grandmother’s aunt’s second husband’s mother is the one who started the fire. He gave her name simply as Mrs. Brooks and claimed she was actually a previously unheard of third person who died in the fire. Brophy admitted that he had no proof other than being told the story by his grandmother.

Contest entries offered up numerous other culprits, often with believable detail, including a housewife named Mrs. O’Mallery, another named Mrs. Horne, an unnamed washerwoman using an empty lot near Bruce’s Ice House, a tailor who became distracted from his flame by a passing parade (valid), and a woman named Katie Mogan who lost control of the fire under her kettle of rendering fat. Blame was even placed on a stray Newfoundland dog whose tail was reported to have been set afire near the wharf. He then went tearing toward Second and Ferry, igniting bone-dry tinder along the way.

Regardless of who started the fire, it’s the aftermath that modern Pittsburghers should remember — and look to for inspiration. Insurance covered little, but Pittsburgh sprung into immediate action to secure public and private relief funds and in-kind gifts to the tune of $800,000. Relief came from locals lucky enough to see their livelihoods escape the flames and from dozens of American cities and as far away as Europe.

As for the survivors themselves, despair and anguish were quickly replaced by self-determination and energy. Just four days post-fire, the air that had echoed with the eerie clang of a warning bell and shouts of fear was filled with the staccato of nails being hammered into the beams of replacement structures. Within four months, hardworking Pittsburghers and a new influx of laborers had nearly 500 buildings up or in progress. Thus, Pittsburgh’s Great Fire gave way to a great rebuilding that erased the final remnants of a frontier town to lay a more well-planned and stronger foundation — up from which a true center of industrial might could rise.

Just as that small square tablet is easy to miss, the big bell in the Heinz History Center can be easily overlooked. It’s just a big bell.

It’s hanging from the rafters near the gift shop entrance in the Great Hall, up where few eyes think to gaze as they head to browse history-themed mementos. Reportedly the largest bell ever cast in Pittsburgh, it hasn’t pealed out a bing-bong in over a century. But nearly two centuries ago on a sunny April day, it warned a bustling city that a destructive force of fiery hell was headed their way. For years afterward, on each April 10, it rang out 1-8-4-5 to commemorate the vast destruction.

But out of the ashes grew a stronger city with a reputation for refusing to stay down, whether that meant recovering from a fire, a flood, or the loss of an entire industry that for a century served as our economic backbone.

So, let’s look up at the bell and remember those who saw in this city something worth rebuilding no matter how many times it was destroyed. Let’s read the tablet and be reminded that even the setbacks that bring us to our knees are not the end.

If we’ve learned anything from our history, it’s that they are often a new beginning.

In her column, Virginia Montanez digs deep into local history to find the forgotten secrets of Pittsburgh. Sign up for her email newsletter at: breathingspace.substack.com