The men soon came to an opulent building. Fletcher had started his own business barely two years before, but he had already acquired all the trappings of wealth. He lived in the heart of downtown, barely a block from the Courthouse. Simon and J.J. couldn’t help but be impressed.
Fletcher had made his money in the futures market, which was a new form of investment unique to Chicago. In fact, futures were so risky— and their losses and payoffs so large— that they were more akin to gambling than investment per se. They had to do with food prices, which were notoriously unstable. For as long as anyone could remember, farmers had just sold their wares at the going rate of the moment. But most farms were just family operations, so they had a hard time weathering the ups and downs of the business. As Illinois farming expanded, the industry needed a stronger financial footing, so the Chicago Board of Trade began buying and selling commodities “for future delivery.” Entrepreneurs could order grain or livestock ahead of time at an agreed-upon price, which would protect the farmers from price changes. Then, when the farmers delivered the goods, the entrepreneurs could immediately re-sell them at the going market rate. If the price had gone up in the meantime, then the speculators would make an instant profit; but if the price had gone down, then they were the ones who absorbed the loss. If the men played their cards right, they could hit one jackpot after another. And that was what Fletcher Bingham had done.
The building’s ground-floor office was teeming with people. Financiers were shaking hands and negotiating deals, while secretaries were delivering messages and organizing huge stacks of paper, and vast sums of money were constantly changing hands.
Fletcher led the Caldwells to his apartment upstairs. His suite was just above his offices, appointed with new couches, velvet curtains, and thick soft carpets. A set of glass doors opened onto a balcony, which overlooked the corner of Madison and LaSalle.
“Bully,” J.J. said as he laid down his things. “It’s a step up from your apartment before.”
“Well, I’ve moved up in the world,” Fletcher said. “Now I ride only the best whores in town.”
J.J. laughed, but Simon was not amused. He had half a mind to cover Tommy’s ears.
“Oh yeah,” Fletcher said. “Your old man wouldn’t approve of that, would he?”
“My father doesn’t approve of many things,” Simon replied. Elijah Caldwell was quite the moralist; he could recite a Bible verse for nearly any occasion, and he had clashed with his children quite a bit.
J.J. scooped up his son. “You don’t mind, do you Tommy?” he asked.
“You bad,” Tommy said as he slapped his father in the face. J.J. responded in kind, and the two began roughhousing on the couch.
Simon rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sakes,” he said. “Now we’ve got two boys in our party, instead of just one.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Fletcher said. “Your brother’s your brother. He ain’t gonna change.” He began sorting through his mail. “So how the devil is your father?”
“Well,” Simon replied, “he’s the same as before. He wants me to stay in Rhinebeck for the rest of my life. Now pray tell me, what is there in Rhinebeck for me?”
Fletcher shrugged. “What’d you expect?” he asked. He picked a card out of his mail and put it on his table.
“What’s that?” Simon asked as he looked at the card.
“Huh?” Fletcher asked before he realized what Simon meant. “Oh, that ain’t important. It’s just some society shindig.”
Simon examined the card; it was an invitation with the words Chicago Club in fine script. From the look of the invitation, Simon figured it must be a fancy affair.
“Now don’t get yourself any ideas,” Fletcher said. “I ain’t gonna have you mooch on my account— I ain’t sticking my neck out for you.”
“I never asked for your help,” Simon replied, “and I don’t intend to take it. I can make my own way in the world.”
“Is that so?” Fletcher asked. “How do you plan to do that? You ain’t still wanting to do that reporting claptrap, are you?”
Simon nodded. “In fact, that’s precisely what I intend,” he replied.
“Why? There ain’t no money in it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon shot back. He had very little interest in money, but he had a great deal of interest in power. At that point, editors and publishers had such a bully pulpit that they were often famous in their own right. For example, New York Tribune publisher Horace Greeley was one of the most prominent men in America. He had helped frame the debate over slavery and Reconstruction, he was a driving force behind the nation’s westward expansion, and he was expected to be a front-runner in the 1872 Presidential race even though he had never before held elective office.
Simon was about to elaborate, but at that moment, J.J. and Tommy wrestled each other off the couch. As they did, they knocked over a porcelain vase, which shattered against J.J.’s head.
“Damn it!” Fletcher said as he went to clean up the mess.
“Oops,” J.J. said.
“You idiot,” Fletcher snapped. “You’ll have to pay me good money for that.”
Simon watched the scene but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t help thinking that Fletcher had been right; his brother would likely never change. Then Simon sighed, turned away, and stepped out to the balcony.
From where he stood, he could see the Chicago Evening Post building about a block away, and a little further down was the Chicago Tribune. The city’s other major paper, the Chicago Times, was around the corner on Dearborn Street. The city boasted a handful of smaller papers as well, including the Republican, the Evening Mail, the Journal, the German-language Staats-Zeitung and Volks-Zeitung, and a handful of religious and special-interest papers. They all competed for readership, and they were all full of opportunities for an ambitious young man.
As Simon stared out at the streets, the wind stopped blowing and the clouds cleared away. Night fell almost imperceptibly; the lights of Chicago began to come on, but the city’s hustle and bustle showed no signs of slowing down.
Simon kept trying to think of the future, but despite his best efforts, he found himself drawn to the past. He kept hearing his father’s warnings echoing through his head. He could see the look in his mother’s eyes as they parted at the station, and he couldn’t forget the last words she said to him: Godspeed, my son, and God bless.
Simon let out a snort, and a puff of breath appeared. He was annoyed at himself for feeling nervous at all. Chicago seemed like just the place he’d been looking for, and if Fletcher could become such a success, then Simon felt he himself could do it too.
Simon stepped away from the window and began going through his luggage. He pulled out two of his favorite books— Waverley and The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon— and then, in the bottom of his suitcase, he found his most treasured possession. It seemed unassuming at first, just a yellowed piece of paper; but in truth, it meant more to him than he dared admit.
It was the last letter he’d received from his older brother Gregory. In fact, Gregory had died by the time the letter had gotten to Rhinebeck, and Simon had always cherished the way it allowed him to speak from the grave. The words were written in Gregory’s inimitable style, full of misspellings in an almost illegible scrawl:
Dear Brother—
It is with much plesure that I write you in answer to your most welcomd missive that I receivd yesterday & you cannt imagine how glad I was to hear from home once more.
I was relievd to hear that you had regaind your health— my own fever has improvd & soon I shall be verry near as strong as I was before. They have got us all out in tents where we have good beds to sleep on. it is mor healthy than it was in the hospitals It is plesant but the wind blows cold hear to day.
Mother wishes I could get a furlow. Tell her I would love to come home but it is almost impossible now. I must be content to wait & if permited to live to see the close of the war or expiration of our time of servic
e then I exspect to return post haste.
I am sorrow to tell you that little Johnny Witherbee of Company A died last night. diseas typhoid fever we mourn his loss verry much. his mother stayd with him over a fortnight before he died. She starts home with his remains in the morning. You know there is thousands of poor soldiers that will see home & friends no more in this world. if you saw the number of sick & maimd it would make your hart bleed.
But anough of the hard side of soldiering I dont think that I am home sick or disheartend for such is not the case for I am only telling you a few simple facts. I like army life first rate it suits me well. if we had our choice of course we would be home for we are not here for fun nor money but we wish never to fill a cowards grave. I wish not to return home permantly untill this immoral & traiterous rebellion is ended. make no mistake— this world must be transformd & when given such a chance, we must not let it go to waste.
When I return you must pick me a woman from among the ladies there. I haint seen a pretty girl since I left Suffolk if there is any pretty girls around old point Comfort they have keppt out of sight I havent seen mor than 4 wimmin since I been here.
Oh dear Brother how I would like to see you. But I must close for the mail will soon leave Please write soon & give all the news & please excuse my poorly writen remarks I will try to do better in the future
In haste yours truly
Gregory M Caldwell
Simon read the letter and sighed. Despite the passage of time, Gregory’s words still haunted him as much as they ever had. The letter reminded Simon of how short life could be. In some ways, he still couldn’t believe Gregory was gone; he felt as though his brother was still watching his every move. Simon didn’t think he believed in the afterlife, but he still wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t disappoint. He read one line in particular— when given such a chance, we must not to let it go to waste— and he vowed to live up to that spirit. He was ready to move heaven and earth to make his brother proud. Simon felt he had no time to lose; he had to roll up his shirtsleeves and get to it, and thanks to Fletcher Bingham, he knew exactly where to start.
Chapter Two: The Prince of Rails
“One of the unpleasantest consequences of political success is that however little it may have to do with that success, his whole life is exposed... the annoyance I am subjected to sometimes is nearly intolerable.”
— Robert Todd Lincoln
THE CHICAGO CLUB WAS THE CLASSIEST, MOST ELITE SOCIAL CLUB IN THE CITY. Its membership rolls were a who’s-who of society, with names like Cyrus McCormick, Marshall Field, and other titans of the age. The club was housed in an elegant downtown building where only the richest and most successful could ever hope to enter. Women, reporters, and other “rabble” were banned so that members could smoke their cigars and sip their brandies in peace. The Chicago Club resembled the old-money cliques of New York or Boston, except for one important difference. Its members did not have a dime of old money between them; every single member was an ambitious self-made man.
By February, Fletcher Bingham had made enough money to be inducted into the club. Simon was impressed, since he had never seen Fletcher as a society type. Simon was anxious to attend the ceremony himself, for he knew how powerful the club members were, and he was anxious to make connections. He knew he couldn’t get in the usual way because the doormen were checking invitations; but he was not about to let a lowly doorman stop him.
Simon rented a tuxedo, slicked his hair back, and polished up on his manners. He then went before a mirror to practice his posture and fiddle with his cummerbund. Then, when Fletcher left his apartment, Simon followed close behind. He snuck into an alley and found the clubhouse’s rear entrance. He watched as the butlers brought in crates of wine and cognac. Simon waited until the butlers turned their backs, and then he made his move: he slipped through the door, strode through the kitchen, and walked into the parlor as if he belonged there.
Some of the club members were instantly recognizable. George Pullman, for example, was a nationally known tycoon. He had begun his career as a city engineer, but he had made his real money with a company of his own. The Pullman Palace Car Company had introduced the “hotel on wheels,” which allowed passengers to ride the rails in style. By 1871, Pullman was expanding his business into every aspect of travel. He was even planning to buy some railroads of his own: the Union Pacific Railway was in dire financial straits, and Pullman was working with Andrew Carnegie to bail out the company. That would give him control over much of the nation’s rail network, including half of the Transcontinental Railroad.
John Burroughs Drake was not nearly so famous, but he was a well-known man nonetheless. He was a hotel magnate, and his Tremont House was one of the finest hotels in the West. His guests had included the most notable men in America, from Stephen Douglas to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and his Thanksgiving dinner was a mainstay of Chicago society. Drake had an interest in the less fortunate too: before the war, he had been a conductor on the Underground Railroad, and he had helped thousands of slaves run away to the North.
“I would like to propose a toast,” came a voice.
Simon looked up to the middle-aged man before him. The man was large and paunchy, with a balding scalp and a thick walrus mustache. Simon grabbed a nearby glass, which a waiter promptly filled with champagne.
“To Chicago,” the man said, “the city that made us all rich!”
Several men said “hear hear,” and the club members lifted their drinks. Simon nodded and tapped his glass against that of a young man beside him. Then he noticed the young man’s face, and he couldn’t help thinking that the fellow seemed familiar. As Simon sipped his drink, he looked discreetly in the other man’s direction, and he kept wondering where he’d seen him before. This gentleman seemed both modest and sophisticated: he was of medium height, with short brown hair and a stylish goatee, and he was dressed in a tailored frock coat and tie. Unlike the other men, he didn’t seem boastful, blustery, or intimidating at all.
Simon made the most casual remark he could think of. “So,” he said, “how well do you know Mister Bingham?”
“Not particularly well,” the young gentleman said. “I just met him. And you?”
“He and I are old friends,” Simon replied. “We worked as pressmen together.”
“Pressmen?” he asked. “That must have been some time ago.”
Simon shrugged. “I suppose,” he replied as Fletcher walked by. Fletcher blinked with surprise and opened his mouth to say something; but then he changed his mind, rolled his eyes, and turned away. Simon ignored him and continued the conversation.
Simon found the young man to be an excellent speaker. The fellow didn’t discuss anything personal, but he was very urbane and knowledgeable about any number of subjects. He and Simon covered all the usual topics, from weather to the news, before Simon realized who this gentleman was. He was an up-and-coming lawyer who tried to avoid publicity, but at the same time, he was a hard person to miss. Simon was standing in the shadow of greatness— in fact, the man’s last name was a synonym for hard work and ambition.
The man was Robert Todd Lincoln, the son of the great President himself.
ROBERT LINCOLN WAS, IN HIS HEART, A NORMAL YOUNG MAN. But as fate would have it, he was never able to live a normal life. His childhood had seemed ordinary enough: he was born and raised in Springfield, Illinois, and he had spent his formative years going to school, making mischief with his friends, and doing all the other things that healthy boys do. He had three younger brothers named Eddie, Willie, and Tad, although Eddie had died so young that Robert barely remembered him.
His parents, however, were no ordinary folk. Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln were a force to be reckoned with, in both the public and private arenas of their lives. To the young Robert, his parents were just “Father” and “Mother,” and like most children, he assumed that his parents were normal. He did know that his father was a very busy man, since it was always a struggle to get him
home in time for dinner. Still, Robert ignored his parents when they discussed “grown-up things.” He didn’t care what his father did at work, nor did he understand why his parents cared so much about it.
That began to change when Robert was a teenager. Abraham Lincoln made two runs for the Senate, and at first, Robert didn’t think much of it. But when he joined his father on the campaign trail, he began to realize that something was afoot. Huge crowds were turning out for his stump speeches, and Robert was shocked that so many people would care about what his old man had to say. Slowly but surely, Robert began to recognize that his father was no ordinary fellow.
Robert soon began showing ambitions of his own. When it came time to look at colleges, he wanted only the best. Robert was determined to get into Harvard, but to his great chagrin, he failed the entrance exam on first try. Still, he didn’t let that stop him. He enrolled at Phillips Exeter Academy, and he spent his entire time there studying for a re-exam. Then he passed the exam and was accepted into Harvard the second time around.
Robert’s accomplishments were then lost in the hubbub, for that was the year his father became President. At first, no one had expected Abraham Lincoln to win the election, since he was running against several better-known and better-qualified candidates. But as it turned out, his opposition was so splintered that he carried the night. The whole country was thrown into a tizzy, and Robert found himself at the center of it all. At first he made light of things: one night, as his family greeted well-wishers, Robert greeted his father with an exaggerated “good evening, Mister Lincoln!” and his father gave him a playful slap in the face. Another time, after a typical father-son spat, Robert quipped that “I have just had a great row with the President of the United States.”
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