1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Sheridan didn’t seem convinced. He cleared his throat and turned to Simon. “Mister Caldwell,” he said, “I hear you have also befriended the Lincolns of late.”

  Simon froze. He hadn’t expected that. He looked around at the mayor, the aldermen, and all the other city leaders. “What makes you say that?” was the only response he could muster.

  “Robert Lincoln wrote me,” Sheridan replied. “He says you’re quite a good man.”

  Simon glanced at Deacon Bross, who seemed moderately impressed. Bross hadn’t known about Simon’s connections. Sam Medill, however, was wearing a pokerface. Finally Simon nodded. “I’m flattered,” he replied.

  On the other side of the table, Fire Marshal Williams was eating in silence. He paid no attention to the conversations around him; he was far too busy obsessing over his work. Williams knew the city was in danger, and he knew how unprepared Chicago truly was. He had warned many of the men at that table, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get anyone to take his warnings seriously. Williams knew he couldn’t be seen as a gadfly, so he now kept his thoughts to himself. He sat at the table in silence, shut out the conversations around him, and finished his meal as if no one else were there.

  BY THE TIME SIMON HEADED HOME, the cicada infestation resembled a plague. The giant insects were everywhere, flying through the streets, mating on the sidewalks, and scurrying through the grass. They buzzed so loudly that they drowned out normal conversation. Many of the creatures were dying, and they littered the ground in such numbers that Simon could not avoid crushing them as he walked. His shoes crunched and squished as he stepped onto his porch.

  “It’s about time you got home,” came a voice through the din.

  Simon looked up in surprise. He hadn’t seen anyone there, but when he turned to his left, he saw Fletcher Bingham in the far corner of the porch. “Oh good day,” Simon replied.

  “Good day, nothing,” Fletcher said as he swatted an insect. “Where is that godforsaken brother of yours?”

  “I have no idea,” Simon replied. “He’s probably drunk as usual.”

  “Why don’t you know?” Fletcher asked.

  Simon opened his door. “Am I his keeper?” he asked.

  “Well, God knows he needs one,” Fletcher said as he barged inside. “He owes me hundreds of dollars from that gambling of his, and now I can’t find a soul who has the slightest idea of his whereabouts.”

  Simon closed the door behind him, and the noise lessened a bit. “What do you mean, you can’t find a soul?” he asked. “J.J. has got to be somewhere.”

  “Well, goddammit, he’s not,” Fletcher snapped. “Your little nephew seen him leave this morning, and that’s the last time anybody heard of him.”

  Simon frowned. He didn’t know if he could trust Fletcher, but he was starting to feel a gnawing worry in his chest. “What do you mean?” Simon asked.

  “What the hell do you suppose I mean?” Fletcher asked. “I’ve got bookies banging on my door, I’ve got bartenders asking for his tab— and what in the hell am I to do with the kid?”

  “What kid?” Simon asked.

  “Your nephew, you dolt,” Fletcher snapped. “I don’t want the little runt in my house.”

  “Leave Tommy out of this,” Simon replied. “He’s only three years old.”

  “He’s a nuisance,” Fletcher said, “and I want him out tonight.”

  Simon scoffed. “That’s preposterous,” he said. “Where on Earth would he go?”

  “He’s your family, not mine,” Fletcher shot back. “You’re the one who’ll have to figure it out.”

  SIMON WAS FUMING AS HE RODE THROUGH THE STREETS. He didn’t have time to go chasing after his brother, nor did he have time to try appeasing Fletcher. He wanted to spend his time working, and he was incensed that J.J. was getting in the way. But he knew that something had to be done, so he rode across Chicago, trying to figure out where his brother might be.

  At first, Simon assumed that J.J. had to be close by. But he didn’t know any of his brother’s favorite haunts, and worse yet, he had no idea who his friends were or where they might live. He had heard J.J. discussing crapshoots and horseraces, but he had no idea where the vice districts were.

  Simon checked all of the taverns he knew of nearby; then he canvassed all of the neighborhood streets. Then he began searching downtown, in the labyrinth of alleys near Fletcher’s apartment. He even looked on the West Side, although J.J. had never mentioned venturing there. His frustration and exasperation kept building when he didn’t find a thing.

  Try what he might, Simon couldn’t convince Fletcher to keep watch over Tommy, so he grudgingly took in the boy until J.J. returned. But Simon was at a loss over what to do next; he had never watched Tommy at length, so he didn’t know what to expect, nor did he know how he would juggle his work.

  Simon wanted to search every place in the city, but he knew it couldn’t be done. Simon didn’t know whether to be worried for J.J., or to be furious at him. All the same, he kept on searching as the cicadas’ harsh buzz gave way to the fireflies’ blinking lights.

  Simon went to Robert to ask his advice. But when he knocked on Robert’s door, he found that no one was home. Simon had half a mind to barge into Robert’s office, so he jumped on his horse to make his way downtown. But as he whipped his horse’s reins, a thought occurred to him, and Simon decided to take a different tack.

  LILLIAN ANDRIST HAD JUST RETURNED FROM A SUFFRAGISTS’ MEETING AND WAS PUTTING AWAY HER SHOES. She heard a knock at the door, so she walked to the stairwell and looked toward the foyer. Her father was in the drawing room, yelling at the manservant, but neither man acknowledged the caller. Lillian sighed and headed downstairs.

  Simon was standing outside with a tense look on his face. “I need your assistance,” he said as soon as Lillian answered the door. “It has nothing to do with the investigation or any of the things we’ve discussed... and I’m sorry to bring this to you, but I know not of a better place to turn.”

  “What is it?” Lillian asked.

  Simon told her what had happened, but he tried not to show how worried he was. He was concerned about J.J., he was concerned about Tommy, and he was concerned about his own ability to handle it all. “I promise I shan’t put it all on your shoulders,” he said, “for it isn’t your burden to bear. I only wish to get my life’s affairs straightened out.”

  Lillian nodded. “Well,” she said, “is that not what women do?”

  Simon tried to figure out what she meant. “I suppose,” he replied. “Is now a good time?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid this is not a good place,” she replied. She glanced back toward the drawing room, where her father was yelling as loudly as ever. “We must go someplace whe’e we may speak in private.”

  Simon nodded. For a moment, he considered bringing her to his home, but he knew that was not a good option. His house was nearly three miles away, and Simon did not want to start any rumors. Then he thought of a simpler solution. “Come with me,” he said.

  ALTHOUGH THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN, the Tribune building’s lights were still shining. The office was nearly devoid of reporters, since all of the daily deadlines had passed. The lower floors were still buzzing with activity as the hydraulic presses churned out the proofs, and the copy editors pored over half-printed pages. But the upper floors of the building were quiet.

  “This way,” Simon told Lillian as he led her upstairs. After climbing four stories, they emerged onto the roof. A telescope stood on the building’s northwest corner. The crescent moon hung just above the horizon, and the planets Venus and Mars were both visible in the sky.

  “How do you feel?” Lillian asked.

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. “My nephew... am I now responsible for him? I know nothing of children. I haven’t a single toy in my house.”

  “Well,” she said, “we’re all inexperienced in such things until it matte’s the most. Inexperience and inability a’e not one and the
same.”

  Simon sighed. He knew Lillian was right. “Tommy doesn’t deserve this,” he said. “He’s been suffering such indignities all his life.”

  “How so?” Lillian asked.

  “He was born to our preacher’s daughter,” Simon replied. “It was quite the scandal. Her family wanted nothing to do with him, which is how Tommy ended up living with J.J.; but J.J., it seems, wanted nothing to do with him either.” Simon felt a pang of guilt, and he sighed. “The boy has never lived a normal life... he’s had to fend for himself on more occasions than I dare count. J.J. often left the boy at home while he cavorted who-knows-where. Tommy has never made any friends to speak of... he was well past his second birthday before he said his first word. And now I, who know nothing of children, am to remedy all of this? I haven’t the faintest idea where to start.”

  Lillian didn’t say a word. She just stared out at the stars.

  Simon followed her gaze, and for a brief moment, he wished his parents were there. They had always known how to rear a child, he thought, but perhaps that was because Simon was their third child. He wondered if they had been so skilled with Gregory and Clara before him. Finally he cleared his throat and looked into Lillian’s eyes. “Perhaps your father could render some advice,” he said.

  Lillian blinked. “Oh no,” she replied. “His expe’tise is in textiles. His only parenting experience was in trying to control an uncontrollable daughter, or at least so he’d tell you. And his success was quite ma’ginal at best.” She walked up to the telescope. “Whose is this?”

  Simon frowned. He wondered why she seemed so keen on changing the subject. “The telescope?” he said. “It belongs to Elias Colbert, one of our editors... but what has that to do with anything?”

  “I myself used to gaze at the heavens with my mothe’,” Lillian said. “If she were still alive now— she would be of immeasurable help in a great many ways.”

  Simon mulled over the thought. “Well,” he said, “we shouldn’t wish for impossible things.”

  ONE BLOCK TO THE EAST, the moonlight reflected off the buildings and cast a faint whitish glow through the Clifton House windows. Tad Lincoln stared out from his chair, which he hadn’t left since the move from Robert’s house. His empty bedpan sat at his feet.

  Tad was tired of being cooped up, and he kept dreaming of the vast world outside. He was still sick, but his coughing seemed to have subsided, so he felt a bit better. Tad made sure that all of his doctors and nurses had left; then he gathered his strength and pulled himself to his feet.

  He was wearing only his undergarments, so he quickly put on a pair of pants. Then he found a suitable shirt in the closet, and he began searching for his shoes. He knew that his mother would panic at the sight of him on his feet, but at that particular moment, Tad didn’t care. He inhaled and savored the sensation of air flowing into his lungs.

  Tad was trying to decide what he would do with himself once he regained his health. He knew that he would soon have to break out on his own, although he knew that his mother would be none too happy about it. As much as he loved her, he knew he couldn’t stay under her wing for too long; he would have to decide on some type of career. Tad was not at all like Robert or his father, so he didn’t see himself as a lawyer. He had a vivid imagination and an inquisitive mind, although he still had his moods. He wondered what jobs would be well suited for him.

  Tad crept down the hall as he tried to work out his plan.

  SIMON WAS STILL FRETTING OVER HIS NEPHEW. He knew he had to put his own interests aside and do what was best for the child. But beyond that, he was struggling with the question of what to do next.

  He kept thinking of Gregory and the noble words in his letter. Simon had read those words so many times that he nearly knew them by heart: we are not here for fun nor money but we wish never to fill a cowards grave... Oh dear Brother how I would like to see you. But I must close.... And then he thought of how suddenly Gregory had died. For a moment, Simon lamented that he had no such letter from J.J., but then he stopped himself because he didn’t want to think that J.J. was gone.

  “Lillian,” he said, “I have a suggestion.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “If that story of yours means so much to you,” he said, “then I do wish to pursue it... if you would only help me find my brother, and keep me from damaging my nephew any further.”

  Lillian blinked. “You’re not damaging your nephew,” she said. “That seems to be your brother’s doing... if I dare say so.”

  “I suppose,” he replied. He unconsciously drew himself closer to her, although he kept looking into the distance. His guilt kept gnawing at him. He let out a deep breath, then looked at Lillian, and he savored the fact that she was no typical girl. He found himself leaning toward her, and she was leaning toward him—

  “Simon?” came a voice.

  Simon and Lillian looked up quickly to see Deacon Bross at the top of the stairs.

  “What are you doing here?” Bross asked.

  “Oh....” Simon shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “I see,” Bross replied. He looked at Simon, then looked at Lillian, then shook his head and went back downstairs.

  Simon jumped after him. He knew how the incident must have looked, and he was afraid of what Bross might do. “Wait, sir, may I have a word—” But when he came to the stairwell, Bross was already gone. Simon looked at Lillian, then looked back downstairs. “Damn,” he said.

  TAD WAS PACING AROUND THE SUITE WHEN HE FELT A STRANGE SENSATION. At first he just seemed to be out of breath, but then his chest tightened up, and he began to get the sense that he was drowning. Tad tried to stretch so that he could draw in a deep breath, but he found it didn’t help. A wave of fear came over him, and he began to feel lightheaded. The hallway seemed to sway and twist around him. He tried to head back toward his room, but he stumbled into the doorway. He realized that getting up had been a serious mistake. In his panic, he tripped on his own feet, lost his balance, and fell to the floor.

  Tad struggled to get up, but he was starting to see stars. He tried to call for help, but his throat was too tight. The last thing he remembered was hearing his mother’s screams; then everything went black.

  Chapter Six: A Great Affliction

  “My dear boy, has been very very seriously ill... May we ever be sufficiently grateful, should his precious life be spared.”

  — Mary Todd Lincoln

  DOCTOR CHARLES GILMAN SMITH HAD BEEN RESTING AT HOME WHEN HE WAS CALLED TO THE CLIFTON HOUSE AT MIDNIGHT. When he and Doctor H.A. Johnson arrived, they found Tad doubled over in a fit of coughing, while Mary dutifully held a jar full of sputum. Doctor Smith looked into the jar, and he saw drops of blood mixed in with green phlegm. Then Tad grabbed the jar, held it up to his mouth, and coughed up more material.

  Doctor Johnson tried to calm Mary, who was on the verge of panic. Both doctors were alarmed, but they managed to keep their cool.

  “Mrs. Lincoln,” Smith said, “I would appreciate if you could please give us a moment.”

  “W-what?” Mary said. “Why, why he’s my own son!”

  “Please.” Smith looked over the rims of his glasses, and he gave her a look that could not be ignored. Johnson took Mary’s arm and began to lead her from the room.

  “I never,” she said. “Why, but what are you doing? You must tell me, you must!”

  “Ma’am,” Johnson said, “it will be all right.” He led Mary toward the hallway, but she kept looking back toward her boy.

  As soon as Mary was gone, Smith reached into his doctor’s bag and pulled out a stethoscope. He listened to Tad’s heartbeat, but he had trouble hearing anything over his coughs. Finally Smith looked up and rubbed his chin. “I was told you had a painful itch on your back?” he asked.

  Tad tried to answer, but he couldn’t say the words. He just nodded his head.

  “Let me see it,” Smith replied. “May I?”

  Tad wheezed again, then put down the
jar and tried to lift his shirt. Smith saw perfectly normal skin, with no rashes or inflammation at all. The doctor chewed his lip; if the problem wasn’t on Tad’s skin, then it had to be somewhere beneath it. All of the symptoms pointed toward a dreadful prognosis.

  “Hurts,” was the only thing Tad managed to say.

  “I’m sure it does,” Smith replied. “But stay calm, and I will do what I can.”

  THE DOCTORS WORKED IN SHIFTS WHILE STORM CLOUDS GATHERED OVER THE PLAINS. When Monday morning dawned, dappled rays of sunlight drifted through the grass; but as the clouds coalesced, the sun vanished behind them. Then a grey veil of rain came over the prairie. A faint light flickered in the distance, and after a few moments, thunder rolled across the sky. Finally the storm reached Chicago, and the rain came down with full force.

  At the Water Works, heavy raindrops drummed on the roof, while machinery clanked and clattered inside. Stokers shoveled coal into the pumps’ giant boilers, and the pistons thumped and hissed with pressure. The pipes throbbed under the strain, but they did their job as designed. The water supplied hydrants all over Chicago, and Marshal Williams knew that it was very badly needed; the pressure was dangerously low in the city’s outer fringes, which crippled his ability to fight fires there.

  At the Clifton House, meanwhile, Robert shook off his umbrella as he rushed across the foyer. He ran upstairs to find his brother wheezing and gasping for air. The rain was hammering against the window, drowning out the groans and grunts that came from Tad’s throat. The doctors were trying to keep Tad as comfortable as possible, but there wasn’t much they could do. Robert was so upset that he had to sit down.

  On the North Side, Simon was struggling to keep his nephew indoors. Simon’s neighborhood was now full of construction sites, so there were plenty of mudholes and puddles in which Tommy could make mischief. The boy knew that frogs, worms, and snails would come out, and he couldn’t wait to collect them. Simon told him that none of that tomfoolery was allowed, but Tommy naturally didn’t listen. When Simon wasn’t looking, Tommy slipped out the back door and spent the next half hour running through the rain in delight.