The Simmons Legacy: James Riley Simmons’ First Day on the Pensacola Police Force in 1905

By Mike Simmons

As a retired sergeant from the Pensacola Police Department, I’ve always been proud of our family’s deep roots in local law enforcement. My father served from 1964 to 1982, and I carried on the tradition from 1986 until my retirement in 2015. But the story starts even earlier with our cousin, James Riley Simmons, who joined the force on April 22, 1905, and rose to captain before retiring in 1947 as the department’s “old man.” He supervised murder investigations, worked under multiple chiefs, and witnessed the loss of colleagues in the line of duty. Drawing from family stories and historical records, I’ve pieced together what his first day on the job might have been like—a glimpse into a Pensacola long gone, emphasizing his observations of the bustling Palafox Street, its vendors and vehicles, the unique creosote-treated wooden brick roads, his new uniform, walking the beat, and the rudimentary communication methods of the era.

Dawn of a New Era: Reporting for Duty

April 22, 1905, dawned clear and mild in Pensacola, a port city still buzzing from its lumber boom and naval yard activities. James Riley Simmons, a young man in his early twenties, arrived at the Pensacola Police Department headquarters, then located in a modest building near the heart of downtown. The department, reorganized in the 1880s after some turbulent years, had about 33 uniformed officers by the turn of the century. James was issued his gear: a used wool double-breasted coat with shiny brass buttons, a matching vest, trousers, a custodian helmet (often called a “London Bobby Hat), a leather belt for his nightstick and handcuffs, and a gleaming badge pinned to his chest. The uniform was hot, heavy and formal, designed more for authority than comfort in Florida’s humid climate. No lightweight fabrics or modern vests back then—just sturdy wool to project the image of “Pensacola’s Finest.”

His chief, C. F. Schad, a stern leader “old school” leader from that era, gave him a brief charge: “Keep the peace, watch for troublemakers, and remember, you’re the law on these streets.” That was it. That was his academy training. James learned on the job. Communication was basic— a whistle for signaling alarms or calling for backup, and perhaps access to one of the new electric signal boxes installed around 1900 for relaying messages to the station. No radios, no phones in pockets; if things got dicey, you’d blow that whistle and hope nearby officers or citizens responded.

Stepping onto Palafox: The Heart of the City

Assigned to a foot patrol—or “walking the beat”—James’s route took him down Palafox Street, the vibrant north-south artery dividing Pensacola’s east-west grid. Named after Spanish General José de Palafox y Melzi, the street had evolved from its British-era moniker “George Street” into the commercial soul of the city. By 1905, it was a mix of wooden and brick buildings housing shops, saloons, and offices, though a massive fire would ravage a block later that Halloween night.

As James strode out, the first thing that struck him was the road underfoot: creosote-treated wooden bricks, paved in the 1890s to accommodate the streetcar lines introduced in 1884. The creosote—a tarry preservative from the local lumber mills—gave off a pungent, oily scent, especially on warm days, mingling with the salt air from nearby Pensacola Bay. The wooden blocks muffled footsteps but could be slick after rain, and horse droppings added to the urban “aroma”. James noted how the surface felt solid yet springy compared to dirt paths, a modern upgrade that symbolized Pensacola’s progress.

Palafox buzzed with activity. Horse-drawn carriages clattered by, their drivers hauling goods or passengers, while the occasional early automobile—perhaps a Ford Model A precursor or a local oddity—puttered along, drawing stares from pedestrians. Cars were rarities in 1905, outnumbered by wagons and buggies, but the streetcars were the real stars: electric trolleys rumbling on dual tracks down the center of Palafox, their bells clanging to clear the way. James watched as one trundled north toward the residential areas, packed with workers heading to the mills or navy yard.

Vendors lined the sidewalks, hawking their wares in a lively chorus. Fishmongers from the bay shouted about fresh mullet and shrimp, their carts dripping with ice. Produce sellers displayed crates of oranges, pecans, and vegetables from nearby farms, bargaining with housewives in long skirts and bonnets. Newsboys waved the latest editions of the Pensacola Journal, yelling headlines about national events or local scandals. The air filled with the smells of roasting peanuts from a street cart and fresh bread from bakeries like the ones near Plaza Ferdinand, where carriages parked in orderly rows under shady oaks.

On the Beat: Eyes and Ears of the Street

Walking his beat meant constant vigilance. James patrolled in daylight, but he knew night shifts often paired officers for safety on rougher stretches. He’d tip his hat to shopkeepers, chat with regulars to build rapport, and keep an eye out for pickpockets or rowdy sailors from the port. Without modern dispatch, communication relied on the whistle code: a short blast for attention, longer ones for specific alerts like fire or theft. If needed, he’d dash to a signal box—early precursors to call boxes—to crank a message back to headquarters.

One family anecdote tells of James breaking up a minor scuffle between vendors over prime sidewalk space, using his commanding presence and nightstick as deterrence rather than using more force. The uniform helped; its formality commanded respect in an era when police were community fixtures, not distant figures in cruisers.

Reflections from a Long Career

By the end of his shift, footsore but exhilarated, James returned to the station with a notebook of observations—no major incidents, but a sense of purpose. Little did he know this was the start of a 42-year career that would see him rise through the ranks, oversee investigations, and mentor the next generation, including influences that trickled down to my father and me.

Pensacola has changed dramatically since 1905—from wooden bricks to modern pavement, horse carts to traffic lights—but the spirit of service remains. If you’re in Pensacola, take a stroll down Palafox today and imagine James walking that same path. Our family’s legacy is a reminder of the dedication it takes to protect this community.

What stories do you have from old Pensacola? Share in the comments!

Mike Simmons is the director of the George Stone Criminal Justice Training Center, president of the Pensacola Police Historic Society, a retired PPD sergeant, and police historian preserving our law enforcement heritage.