1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “Your father did the great work of the war, but Grant had all the pecuniary compensation,” she said. “As I now stand, I can board plainly and economically with all that I have, with that delicate pension. It mortifies me, in this land, for which my husband’s precious life was sacrificed, that I am unable in my gloom to shelter myself under my own roof. Your father, so fondly indulgent, would have shrunk back in horror if he could have imagined his beloved family thus domiciled. If I had a suitable place to stay, I would desire no more.”

  The younger Mary stepped forward. “Excuse me, ma’am,” Mary Harlan said, “but I hardly wish your lodgings to be deficient in our home. If you do find yourself uncomfortable—”

  “I want a quiet refuge, and there to remain and wander no more,” Mary Todd snapped. “Not to stay within the confines of this tatty little house—”

  “Tatty?” Mary Harlan asked. “Little?”

  “Imagine what would happen if you sought a foreign mission— imagine living in a consular mansion!”

  Mary Harlan stared at her mother-in-law. She clenched her jaw for a moment, then crumpled her telegram and tore it to pieces. “Didn’t you say once that if General Grant were elected President, that you would leave this country and not return until his term had ended?”

  Mary Todd blinked. “I may have said that,” she replied. “Why?”

  “Well,” she snapped, “you’ve failed to keep your promise, and you’ve returned too soon.”

  The room fell silent. Tad tried to stifle his cough, and Robert let his fork fall onto his plate. Mary Todd’s mouth hung open as she tried to determine how to respond.

  Robert tried to diffuse the situation. “Sweetpea—”

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetpea,’” his wife shot back. “I’ve had enough of this. Excuse me.” With that, Mary Harlan stormed up the stairs, leaving shreds of telegram paper in her wake.

  Robert and his mother exchanged glances. Mary Todd didn’t say a word.

  Tad was just as surprised as they. He knew that Mary Harlan was not one to make a scene.

  “I-I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” was the only thing Robert could say. He swallowed and rose from the table. “Excuse me.”

  Tad swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln,” he said before he let off another cough.

  “Oh hush,” his mother said.

  Robert ran up the stairs to his bedroom. He eased the door open and found his wife sitting on the bed. She had tears running down her cheeks.

  “What’s the matter?” Robert asked as he put his arm around her.

  Mary Harlan rested her head on his shoulder. “My mother has worsened,” she replied.

  “Oh,” Robert said. He was not terribly surprised, since Ann Harlan had been in failing health for years. “I’m terribly sorry. Is it serious?”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “Why else would Father tell me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said. He leaned over and gave his wife a kiss on the forehead.

  Mary Harlan pulled away from him. “I must start packing,” she said.

  “Packing?” Robert said. “What on Earth for?”

  “What would you think?” she shot back. “I have got to be with her. What other reason could I possibly have?”

  Robert bit his lip. “You needn’t go to Washington,” he said.

  “Yes I do,” she replied. “I plan to be on the next train I can find.”

  WHEN SIMON PRESENTED LILLIAN’S STORY IDEA, he went before Deacon Bross and city editor Sam Medill. Simon was still nervous about pursuing the matter; he almost wanted to do it on his own, and keep it hidden from the Tribune until his reporting was complete. But ultimately he knew that he needed to keep a high profile. He had to cast himself as a go-getter to ensure that his work was noticed. And so he flashed his best smile, and he gave his editors the same spiel that Lillian had given him.

  Sam Medill didn’t seem particularly impressed. Sam was the brother of Joseph Medill, who knew more about Chicago government than anyone else. “Mister Caldwell,” he said, “you recognize that Doctor Dyer is closely linked to many prominent men.”

  “I do,” Simon replied.

  “So I must ask you,” he continued, “if my brother were to harbor political ambitions, then how can you guarantee that your work will help— and not hinder— any campaigns he may have?”

  At first Simon wasn’t sure what to say. “Is Joseph Medill running for office?” he asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Sam Medill replied. “If he does, however, we must ensure that we do not jeopardize his chances.”

  “I see,” Simon replied. “In truth, I hardly see it as a problem. Your brother can style himself a reformer if he likes, and he can tout his own honesty and ethics. I believe this story can be a feather in his cap.”

  Deacon Bross crossed his arms. “You mean that you wish it to be a feather in yours,” he replied. “Do you not remember what I told you at the Courthouse?”

  “There is nothing wrong with uncovering graft,” Simon replied. “I should think that an advocate of clean government would support such an effort.”

  “Now wait—”

  Sam Medill put up his hand. “Let me ask this,” he said. “What would happen if these allegations turned out to be untrue? Unfounded accusations can be devastating, especially in potentially notorious cases such as this— both for the accused and for the accuser exposed to charges of libel.”

  “I would not deem the accusations unfounded,” Simon replied, “at least until we’re able to investigate further.”

  Bross rolled his eyes, but Sam Medill took things in stride. “I shall discuss it with my brother,” he said. “I pledge to consider your story, but I question what he will say. In the meantime, you are to do absolutely nothing about this. Do you understand?”

  Simon gritted his teeth. He was beginning to think that the story had been a bad idea after all, and he was annoyed at Lillian for having suggested it. If Dyer truly had forged the title to Simon’s land, then Simon mused that he didn’t want to know. “I understand,” was the only thing he could say.

  “In the meantime,” said Sam Medill, “I have a more worthwhile assignment for you.”

  MARY HARLAN LINCOLN CHECKED THE SCHEDULES POSTED ON THE TRAIN STATION WALLS. Her departure was scheduled for 5:15 pm, and her train was already idling on the tracks. She let the redcaps take her luggage; then she took her daughter’s stroller and looked back at her husband. “Come on,” she said.

  “Sweetpea,” Robert said, “I assure you that there’s no need for you to leave.”

  “Of course there is,” she said. “I have an ill mother, and I need to be with her. If that is not a legitimate need, then I would question what is.”

  “But... but....” Robert put his hand on the stroller. “You must leave Mamie behind, I implore you.”

  “Darling,” Mary Harlan replied, “you know very well that I can’t. Between your work and other duties, you’re indisposed nearly the whole day. Who would take care of her then?”

  “Now wait,” he said, “you must listen to me. She’s my daughter as much as she is yours.”

  “Of course she is,” Mary Harlan said. “You needn’t overstate your case. We’ll be back soon enough, as soon as things have calmed down. Isn’t that right, Mamie?”

  Mamie didn’t seem to understand, but she nodded. A cloud of soot and steam blew across the platform.

  “Is it because of my mother?” Robert asked. “You needn’t mind her— she often doesn’t mean what she says—”

  “I said nothing of your mother,” Mary Harlan replied, “and you forget that I know her quite well. That is not the issue.”

  “Then what is it?” Robert asked.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, stop it,” she said. “I haven’t the time for this type of conversation. The train waits for no one. Let us go.” A porter hoisted the stroller into the railcar; then Mary Harlan stepped up, turned, and looked b
ack. “Listen. I shall tend to my mother, and you shall tend to yours, and we shall see each other again in good time. All right?”

  Robert didn’t know what to say. It was not the first time his wife had gone to take care of her mother, but it was certainly the first time she had been so curt with him. Robert thought he might have done something wrong, and he was trying to figure out what it might have been.

  Robert jumped when the locomotive sounded her whistle. “I love you,” he said.

  “Very well, and I you,” Mary Harlan replied. “I shall write you when we get there.”

  An attendant closed the train doors before Robert could reply. Then the conductor called for “all aboard,” and Robert was forced to step back.

  Mary Harlan pulled Mamie out of the stroller, and together they waved through the window. Then the rail cars shuddered, and the train began to move.

  “Bye bye Daddy,” Mamie said through the window.

  Robert smiled and waved, but he couldn’t deny a sinking feeling in his chest. He felt as though he wouldn’t see his wife and daughter again. Robert tried to tell himself that he was being neurotic, and that he ought to stay sensible, but privately he knew that things had taken a turn for the worst. Finally the train pulled out of the station, his wife and daughter disappeared from view, and he was left standing alone on the platform.

  SIMON WAS HEADING TO HIS NEW HOUSE WHEN A HUGE RED-EYED INSECT FLEW INTO HIS FACE. Simon jumped back in disgust, and the bug fell onto the sidewalk. It was a black bulbous creature, with clear wings and spidery legs, about the size of a mouse. It scuttled across the planks, then gave off an earsplitting noise.

  The seventeen-year cicadas had just hatched, and they were infesting Northern Illinois at a scale unlike anything Simon had seen. All over Chicago, the bugs were crawling out of the ground, molting, and making their trademark mating calls. The noise was audible across the city as millions of insects crawled about at once.

  Simon’s house was finally finished, so he was moving the last few things out of Fletcher’s apartment. In truth, there wasn’t much to move, since Simon had come to Chicago with so few possessions. But Simon wasn’t worried about that in the least. He assumed there would be plenty of time to buy furniture and decorations and other such things; and in the meantime, he was satisfied with a Spartan way of life.

  His only concerns were the locusts. As widespread as they were, they seemed especially prevalent in his new neighborhood. Simon mentioned them to his new neighbors and co-workers, but none of them knew what to expect, since they hadn’t lived in Chicago long enough to have seen such a thing. So while Simon situated his home and arranged his things, he kept a wary eye on the swarms of insects outside.

  THE CICADAS WERE A BIT QUIETER— ALBEIT NOT BY MUCH— ON THE SOUTH SIDE, WHERE MARY LINCOLN WAS ALSO PREPARING TO MOVE. She had dreamt of living in the upscale Tremont House hotel, but she found she couldn’t afford it. Mary signed a lease at the nearby Clifton House instead, where she and Tad had once lived in the past. It was still a comfortable locale by many others’ standards, but Mary found it unbecoming a woman of her stature; she said she only went there because she had no other choice.

  Tad, meanwhile, had only gotten sicker. He was confined to his bed but couldn’t actually lie down. His doctors had diagnosed him with pleurisy, and they made him sit upright to keep his breathing passages clear. Tad was none too happy about that, since he couldn’t even sleep lying down, but he took everything in stride. He had been sickly for most of his life, so he was used to the trials and tribulations of illness. His main worry was that it kept him and his mother from moving to the Clifton House right away. And so he sat in his room, listened to the locusts, and waited for his lungs to clear up.

  Robert, for his part, didn’t want his mother or brother to leave. He didn’t want to be left alone in a big empty house, and he didn’t think moving would be good for his brother. He tried everything to convince his mother to stay; he even brought up her old fears about money, and he reminded her that she wouldn’t have to pay rent if she simply stayed with him. But Mary was adamant, and she insisted that she and Tad should have a place of their own.

  Then, on May 28, Tad seemed to have a good day. The move was very easy, since most of their things had not been unpacked since their return to Chicago. It took only two hours to load up the carriages, transport everything downtown, and haul it into the Clifton House. By the end of the day, the whole effort was over. Tad made himself comfortable and tried to soothe his lungs, while Mary worked herself into a lather putting up their decorations.

  Robert, for his part, was left with no home life to speak of. He enveloped himself in his work, sorting through insurance claims, fighting for railroad rights-of-way, and taking on whatever new cases he could. He wanted to distract himself from his personal troubles, and for the most part, it worked. But he would later live to regret it, because it would bring about consequences that he didn’t expect.

  THE NEXT DAY, Chicago’s German population celebrated the end of the Franco-Prussian war. The city’s populace turned out in droves to hold one of the biggest celebrations that anyone had seen.

  It began with speeches in Courthouse Square. Five hundred people sat on the grandstand, while thousands of others packed the surrounding streets. Men were waving handkerchiefs, and women were holding up their children to give them a better view. Mayor Mason played gracious host, thanking all the speakers in kind.

  At noon, a seven-mile procession marched through downtown. The parade was made up of an estimated thirty thousand people, including four hundred carriages and several dozen brass bands. Young men cheered for the new German Empire, and they raved about how it would become a dominant power in the world. Older couples reminisced about the kingdoms of the old German Confederation. A handful of dissenting voices spoke out, but they were all but lost in the din. The crowd chanted the lyrics of “Die Wacht am Rhein” in all their fervent nationalism.

  J.J. Caldwell was in the midst of it all, passionately drinking himself into a stupor. Simon was appalled at his brother’s exhibition, but he didn’t have time to chastise him for it. Simon was assigned to report on the event, so he had to spend his time darting through the crowd. The procession ran a full three hours, followed by a reception hosted by the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners.

  Simon was heading into the Courthouse when Lillian caught his arm. “Listen, I know what you told your edito’s,” she said.

  “What? How?” Simon asked.

  “Deacon Bross is a neighbor of mine,” she replied. “Simon, you must listen to me. Bross is a shameless eternal optimist. He will always cast Chicago in a favorable light, and he will bury any sign of malfeasance. I beg you to be discreet in your investigation— and I thought I had made that clear already.”

  Simon frowned. “Look,” he said. “I don’t see why you seem so afraid. What on Earth is it to you?”

  “Do not ask me that question,” she said, “for I don’t wish to lie.”

  “I haven’t the time for this,” Simon shot back. “If you expect me to act on your tips, then you must tell me everything. And don’t give me any of that self-righteous claptrap, because evidently you’ve got an interest in it too.”

  “Simon,” she replied, “my interests are only trifles in comparison to yours. I’m not the one whose home could be at stake.”

  “What business is it of yours what happens to my home? And how can you ask me to do anything if you won’t come forward with the truth?”

  Lillian looked at him for a moment, then finally threw up her hands. “I’m sorry I had high expectations fo’ you,” she said, then turned and stormed away.

  Simon fumed. He had half a mind to go after her, but he had too many other things to do. He just snorted, clenched his jaw, and watched Lillian cross the street; then he stomped into the Courthouse, where the reception was about to begin.

  The police and fire offices were housed in the basement. The commissioners had always grumbled abo
ut that, but the luxurious suites were reserved for agencies with more political clout. Still, the office served as a useful multipurpose room, so it was ideal for the luncheon that day.

  General Philip Henry Sheridan was the city’s guest of honor. Sheridan was a deceptively unassuming man. Abraham Lincoln had once described him as “a brown, chunky little chap, with a long body, short legs, not enough neck to hang him, and such long arms that if his ankles itch he can scratch them without stooping.” But Sheridan made up for his appearance with a fiery disposition. His temper and profanity had almost gotten him thrown out of West Point. Since then, he had made a name for himself fighting Indians out West, and the Civil War had turned him into a hero. Now he was being recognized for his service to Kaiser Wilhelm I, since Sheridan had accompanied the German Army in its march through France, and he had helped capture Napoleon III. Upon his return home, Sheridan had resumed his old post; he commanded the U.S. Army’s Division of the Missouri, which covered most of the Western states and territories.

  The aldermen toasted Sheridan and tried to coax him into a speech. But Sheridan simply smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I thank you very kindly.”

  Sheridan seemed to have something on his mind, and as Simon eavesdropped on his conversation, he found out what it was. Sheridan had grown very close to the Lincolns, having been in Europe during much of the same time as they. He had even sailed home on the same ship as Mary and Tad. Now Sheridan was concerned about the reports of Tad’s illness.

  “He isn’t the only one who is ill,” alderman Gustave Busse was saying. “What am I to tell my constituents when they are sickened by city water?”

  Mayor Mason shrugged as he swallowed a piece of venison. “Now now,” he said. “Our public works will change all of that.”