1871

by Peter J Spalding

  But in spite of all that, there was no way for Robert to escape his father’s shadow. No matter what he did with his life, Robert’s accomplishments were invariably compared to those of President Lincoln, and to Robert’s frustration, they seemed relatively meek.

  In many ways, it was not a fair comparison. Robert was only twenty-seven years old in 1871, and he was well ahead of where his father had been at that age. When Abraham Lincoln was twenty-seven, he had been living in the village of New Salem with no money and few prospects, and certainly no one imagined that he would ever be President. But in the public mind, Abraham Lincoln was now a national martyr, Honest Abe, the Great Emancipator, one of history’s great leaders, and Robert simply was not.

  The Chicago Club was one of the few places where Robert could be his own person. The club members still revered President Lincoln, but Robert was one of their founding members, so he garnered respect in his own right. Moreover, these men judged people on the basis of their own accomplishments, not on the basis of anyone else’s; and in that sense, Robert was second to none. Within the clubhouse walls, he could relax and spend time with his friends, without worrying about his public image, family responsibilities, or anything of the sort.

  Simon was struck by the way Robert made no effort to talk about himself. In fact, Robert seemed more interested in talking about Simon; he kept asking about his family and his hometown, and he solicited Simon’s opinions on a number of subjects. The men seemed to have a great deal in common, as they were both headstrong, ostensibly independent young men.

  They realized, for example, that they shared an interest in politics. Robert had a great deal to say about local government in particular. He felt that Chicago’s mayor, Roswell Mason, was not up to the job; but Mason’s term would be over at the end of the year, and he was not expected to seek re-election. Simon didn’t know that, but he suspected that it would be helpful to note, so he smiled and nodded and memorized Robert’s every word.

  Then they got onto the topic of real estate. Simon had always wanted to build a house of his own, and Robert told him it was a worthwhile idea. But if he wanted to buy property, Robert said, then he would have to do it soon. Chicago’s real estate market was so hot that the city was flooding with speculators; at times, a person could buy a plot of land in the morning, then re-sell it that evening at a significant profit.

  Finally, at six o’clock that evening, Robert announced that he had to head home. He and Simon shook hands, said goodbye, and promised to meet again later. Simon, for his part, was elated by the way things had gone. He knew that Robert would be an important connection, and he hoped he could open any number of doors.

  Fletcher, meanwhile, couldn’t resist a surly comment. “Well well well,” he said as soon as Robert left the room. “If it isn’t Cinderella at the ball.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “So says the former typesetter,” he shot back.

  “Listen,” Fletcher said. “I’ll be damned if I set another word of type in my life.”

  “And you think I will?” Simon asked. “That, my friend, is exactly why I’m here.” In truth, Simon was glad that Fletcher hadn’t blown his cover, because he didn’t know what he would have done to save face.

  “Suit yourself,” Fletcher said. “At least you’re not breaking my things like that brother of yours.”

  Chapter Three: The Mark of a True Businessman

  “Go in boldly, strike straight from the shoulder—hit below the belt as well as above, and kick like thunder.”

  — Joseph Medill

  WHEN SIMON FIRST SAW BELDEN AVENUE, it seemed like the edge of the civilized world. It was at the fringes of the city, about three miles north of downtown. A few modest homes lay scattered along its length, but otherwise there was very little there. The vast plains sprawled off toward the horizon, and the nearest tree seemed an impossible distance away. The shores of Lake Michigan lay off to the east, where the lakeside Lincoln Park was under construction.

  Simon could only afford one particular parcel of land. It was in a vacant area near Sedgwick Street, and at first glance, it seemed inauspicious at best. The plot was empty except for two wooden stakes. Its snow cover was melting away, revealing dead matted grass underneath. Mud was seemingly everywhere, and it stuck to Simon’s boots like glue.

  Its seller was a man named Charles V. Dyer, who was charming and refined but somehow seemed a bit like a hustler. Dyer had a smug grin and slick way of speaking, and he wanted to close the deal quickly. “Well, son,” he said, “do you want it or not?”

  Simon hesitated. He was disappointed with the high cost of land, but he assumed there was no way around that. He did get the sense that the tract held untapped potential. He suspected that the neighborhood would soon be on the make, so if he was to build a life for himself— so he thought— then that was a good place to start.

  “All right,” Simon finally said. “I think I’ve decided to take it.”

  “Well done, sonny!” Dyer replied. “You won’t regret it, I know.”

  Simon didn’t want to be called “sonny,” but he didn’t say a word.

  To afford his home’s construction, he needed a good job right away. For that, he called on Robert Lincoln. Simon put his piercing blue eyes to good use, and he convinced Robert that his aims were sincere. Robert was impressed enough to pledge his support, on the condition that he would be rewarded.

  Robert didn’t have many friends in the press, but he did have one important ally, namely Tribune publisher Joseph Medill. In fact, Medill so admired the Lincolns that he made their association sound closer than it was. Robert found it quite easy to call in a favor and get Simon hired as a local cub reporter. It was not a glamorous assignment— it did not offer a byline, and it involved mostly crime stories, public meetings, and things of that sort— but it was what Simon needed.

  The next step was for Simon to take out a loan. For that, Robert introduced him to J. Young Scammon, who had been an old friend of his father’s. Scammon had founded the Marine Bank, Chicago’s first financial institution, and he agreed to finance Simon’s endeavors. Scammon also sold Simon the insurance he needed, through his own Mutual Security Insurance Company. Robert helped Simon work through the red tape, and by the end of the week, all the papers were in order.

  On March 17, everyone met at Scammon’s home to close the deal. Simon expected it to be a routine matter— just signatures, notarizations, and other formalities— but it turned out to be anything but.

  Scammon lived at Terrace Row, an exclusive apartment block on Michigan Avenue. The building was four stories tall, just across from the lake. The Illinois Central Railroad trestle, which had brought Simon into the city, lay about a hundred feet offshore. A cool breeze blew across the water, and a handful of clouds drifted across the sky.

  As Simon approached the front steps, he saw a carriage pull up beside him. “Excuse me,” said the driver, “do you know when the lady is coming?”

  “What lady?” Simon asked.

  Robert tried to pull Simon away. “There is no lady here,” he replied.

  “Oh, believe me,” the driver said, “you may trust that there is.”

  Simon was trying to figure out what that meant when an apartment door opened. A manservant stepped out and stood by the door. Simon heard a woman’s footsteps echo from inside. Robert looked toward the building; the wagon driver smoothed out his uniform and adjusted his hat. Finally a young lady emerged from the building and strode down the front steps.

  She was petite, around Simon’s age, with curly reddish-brown hair. Her skin was fair with a handful of freckles. She was dressed in a tiered red skirt with black trim, topped with a matching knee-length jacket. Her hat lay tipped over her forehead, and she wore dangly silver earrings. She also sported white gloves with ribbons at the wrists. She immediately caught Simon’s attention, although Simon didn’t know why.

  “Robert,” he whispered, “Who is that?”

  “That’s Lillian Andrist,” Ro
bert said as if it were an odd question. “You’ve never met her?”

  “No,” Simon replied.

  “Well, she certainly knows how to make her presence known. She’s quite a pistol, that one, so you needn’t get any ideas. I pity the man who ends up marrying her.”

  “How so?” Simon asked.

  “She’s a fishwife,” Robert said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what she does all day, and I have no desire to find out. I do know that her father is Archibald Andrist, the textile magnate, and I hear she’s got him wrapped around her manicured little finger. She was reportedly expelled from the seminary at Ipswich— how or why, I don’t know, but it hardly seems to matter. The fact is that she has no sense of manners and is loath to submit to anyone. She probably offended someone’s sense of decency.”

  “Is that so?” Simon asked. He squinted as the driver whipped the reins. Simon made sure to note exactly how the girl looked. He wondered how he could learn more about her, but it hardly seemed like the proper time to ask. As Simon watched, the carriage turned a corner, and Miss Andrist disappeared.

  “Heaven help us,” Robert said as he knocked on Scammon’s door.

  JONATHAN YOUNG SCAMMON WAS NOT AN IMPOSING MAN, but he exuded intelligence and class. He had a round face with slightly downturned eyes. His hair was thinning, but he compensated for it with a carefully coiffed beard. He was a quintessential Renaissance man, having founded both the Chicago Historical Society and the Chicago Astronomical Society, not to mention having served on the city’s Board of Education and being an important patron of the arts. Scammon’s library was locally famous; his walls were lined with bookshelves, which contained leather-bound copies of every imaginable tome.

  “Good afternoon,” he said in carefully enunciated words. “You are the first to arrive. By all means, make yourselves at home.”

  “Thank you,” Simon replied.

  “Robert,” Scammon said, “my son tells me you’ve had some difficulties at work.”

  Robert sat on a divan. “It’s nothing serious,” he said. “Difficulties are part of the normal course of business.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to come work for me instead?” Scammon asked. “My firm is willing to make a generous offer, and now that you’ve a daughter, you may require a more stable employ—”

  “I’m flattered, but no thank you,” Robert said. “My self-sufficiency is more precious than any financial rewards.”

  Scammon shrugged. “Well, I can certainly respect that,” he said. “How is your family?”

  “Very well,” Robert said. “My mother and brother are in London. They hope to sail home shortly.”

  “How wonderful. And they’re enjoying themselves?”

  “I expect they are,” Robert said. “Tad was homesick during his first weeks in Europe, but that was some time ago, and he seems to have adjusted well since. All the same, it will be good to see them again.”

  “I imagine it will,” Scammon replied. His wife Maria appeared at his side. “Gentlemen, can we offer you anything to drink? A brandy, perhaps?”

  Simon and Robert exchanged glances. “Oh, no thank you,” Simon replied.

  “Very well,” Scammon said. “Thank you, Maria, but I believe we’re all right.” He sat down at his desk. “Have you the necessary papers?”

  “Yes,” Robert said as he pulled a bundle from his briefcase.

  “I must tell you, I’m impressed with the price you managed to get,” Scammon said. “Doctor Dyer owns property all over the North Side. He’s not an easy man to sway.”

  “Well,” Simon replied, “nearly all men can be swayed if they’re pressed hard enough.”

  “He’s quite a character, isn’t he?” Scammon asked.

  “How do you mean?” Simon asked.

  “Well, I have known him for decades, but I cannot say I understand him. Did he ever remove his glass eye?”

  Simon frowned. “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “He’s been known to do that at times,” Scammon said. “He pulls out his eye, polishes it on his sleeve, and puts it back in place. He only does it to shock, of course, but it makes quite an impression on the ladies.”

  “I imagine it does.” As Simon glanced outside, he saw another carriage stop in front of the house.

  “Have you found a suitable construction firm yet?”

  “I believe I have,” Simon replied. “I found an architect on Lake Street who promised to finish my home in a month.”

  “He is not charging too much, I hope.”

  “No. I needn’t build anything fancy. At this stage in my life, a simple woodframe house will suffice.”

  “Very good,” Scammon said. “That’s the mark of a true businessman. No nonsense, no pretense. I like that.” He pulled out a pen and inkwell, and his wife led Dyer and two other men into the room. “Shall we get started?”

  WHILE SIMON HOBNOBBED WITH THE WEALTHY, Fletcher Bingham prowled around the slum of Conley’s Patch. Fletcher knew that area well: it contained the city’s dirtiest, most dilapidated shacks, not to mention its most miserable brothels. J.J. Caldwell, however, seemed quite fond of it all; he had spent that whole day at a gambling den.

  Fletcher saw an elegant carriage approaching. The wagon stopped in front of a rookery, and Lillian Andrist stepped out. Fletcher was not at all surprised, since he had seen Miss Andrist in that area before. He knew she did some sort of work with the poor, although he had never understood why a woman of her stature would do that.

  Fletcher was leering at Miss Andrist when he heard a commotion next door. He heard a voice— “Git yer hands off me, ya rat!”— and a gunshot went off.

  “No,” J.J. was saying as he ran out of the building. “Come on, Garland, listen—”

  “The hell I’m going to listen,” a haggard man replied. He cocked a LeMat revolver and put his finger on the trigger.

  “Now relax,” J.J. said. “Come on, friend.”

  “I ain’t yer friend,” the man replied, “an’ I don’t wanna be.”

  Miss Andrist stopped what she was doing and strode over to the men. “Miste’ Farragut,” she said, “you must leave that boy alone.”

  “Shut your trap,” he said. “Who do you think you are?”

  “I would say a woman who doesn’t wish to be crossed.” Miss Andrist spoke with a New England accent, but her twang didn’t hide the iron in her voice. “Now let that young gentleman go.”

  “Don’t ya tell me what to do,” the man said.

  “I intend to say what I like, and if that presents a problem—”

  “You ain’t—”

  Miss Andrist did something fast, and the gun went flying across the street, where it discharged with a bang! Its bullet went harmlessly into the ground, and the empty pistol lay smoking in the street.

  A few passersby had jumped at the gunshot, but they went back to their business when they saw that no one was hurt. The shooter stared at his hands with a look of shock on his face.

  Miss Andrist strode over to the pistol. “Now,” she said as she picked up the gun, “didn’t I tell you to let that boy go?”

  “B-but... but....”

  Miss Andrist gripped the revolver as tightly as she could. “Go home,” she said. “And don’t eve’ try to shoot me or any othe’ person again.”

  “Listen, y’little shrew, you can’t tell me—”

  “Don’t you ‘little shrew’ me,” she snapped. “Begone!” She gave the man a withering look, and she pointed down the street with her free hand.

  J.J. gaped, but Fletcher just rolled his eyes. “Christ almighty,” Fletcher said.

  The shooter scowled. “This ain’t the end of it,” he said. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and went skulking away.

  Miss Andrist turned to J.J. “Now listen,” she said, “Miste’ Farragut isn’t but a walking pile of trash. I presume you owe him money, as many people do, and it’s anyone’s guess as to what he’ll do to you next. I suggest you stay away from him. Unde’s
tood?”

  “Yes ma’am,” J.J. said.

  “Good day to you,” she replied. Then she turned, put the gun in her handbag, and walked off.

  Fletcher looked at J.J. and shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “Leave it to you to be saved by a woman.”

  AT TERRACE ROW, C.V. Dyer licked his lips as Simon signed the dotted line. In one fell swoop, Simon became the proud owner of the Belden Avenue plot, and he incurred a sizeable debt in return.

  “Congratulations,” Robert said as he and Simon left the building. “Now don’t you dare make me look bad, understand?”

  “Rest assured,” Simon replied, “I shan’t disappoint you, or Scammon, or anyone else.” He knew how large of a step he had taken; in fact, he had just accomplished what no one else in his family had ever been able to do. Simon’s sister Clara had always wanted to buy land in New York, but despite her husband’s income, she could still not afford it. Even Simon’s father had never bought his inn; he had inherited it from his own father, which was hardly the same thing. Simon felt his heart pounding as he clutched his new title, and he handled the papers as if they were heirlooms.

  The two men went to Robert’s home for a celebratory lunch. Simon wanted to savor his last hours of freedom, because he knew he’d be busy once he started his new job. Robert lived a mile south of downtown in an elegant spacious home. Robert’s wife already had the meal ready when they strode through the door.

  “Mister Caldwell,” she said, “I am very pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he replied. Simon could tell right away that he liked Robert’s wife. Mary Harlan Lincoln was a very sweet lady, and she looked quite becoming in her green-and-white dress.

  “Da-da,” said their seventeen-month-old daughter.