1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “I don’t believe that boy,” Simon shot back. “He went back to Rhinebeck? Why in heaven’s name would anyone do that? And why did he abandon his child— what in the hell was he thinking?”

  “Pe’haps he had no choice,” Lillian said. “Pe’haps he was compelled to flee back to his hometown—”

  “Well, what could have possibly compelled him to do that? The blockhead! And why did he do it without telling a soul?”

  “Simon,” Lillian said, “you must turn around.”

  “What?” Simon asked; then he spun around and saw his nephew behind him. “Bed,” he snapped as he pointed toward Tommy’s room. “Now.”

  Tommy didn’t know how to react. He backed up a few steps, then turned and hurried away.

  Simon closed his eyes and let off a sarcastic laugh. “That brother of mine,” he said, “he’s an incorrigible numskull. What does he expect to have happen now? And what am I to tell Fletcher?”

  “Fletcher isn’t impo’tant at the moment,” Lillian said. “You’ nephew is the one caught in the middle of all this. Just be glad you’ brother is safe.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. He knew Lillian was right, but her words didn’t make him feel any better. “Gregory would never have done such a thing,” he replied.

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, Tad was sleeping well, but Robert was exhausted, and he had come down with a slight fever of his own. Tad’s nurses persuaded Robert to go home and get some sleep.

  As Robert left the Clifton House, he considered the suggestion that his brother had made. Robert and his wife had always wanted to take a European trip, but for whatever reason, life had always gotten in the way. First had come Mary Harlan’s pregnancy; then had come the pressures of caring for a baby; and now he and his wife were decidedly apart. Robert told himself that he couldn’t let that stop him. He knew life was never easy, but he would have to find a way to take control of his fate. After all, he thought, his father had faced far greater obstacles, and he had never let circumstances get the best of him.

  But neither Robert nor Simon, nor anyone else in Chicago, could have guessed where the key to their fates truly lay. It was in the most unassuming of places: on the city’s West Side, in the midst of the slums. It was a small wooden barn that was little more than a shed, which blended in perfectly with the ramshackle buildings around it. In July 1871, no one gave the barn any more than a passing thought— for its significance would not become known until later.

  Chapter Seven: An Intemerate Soul

  “Our growing sins of commission are heavy and need repentance; and our sins of omission are quite as bad.”

  — Chicago Tribune

  AT 137 DEKOVEN STREET STOOD THE HOME OF PATRICK AND CATHERINE O’LEARY. The O’Learys lived only a mile from downtown Chicago, but they were worlds away from the city’s elite. Their property was only twenty-five feet wide, and it fronted an unpaved street. The house itself was made up of two adjacent structures. The first section— which faced the street— was usually rented out to tenants. The smaller structure in the back was where the O’Learys resided. They lived out of three tiny rooms, which were so cramped that the family could barely fit inside.

  The O’Learys had come across the Atlantic a decade before, and by American standards, they lived hardscrabble lives. But by Irish immigrant standards, they were doing fairly well. Patrick had fought in the Civil War and had bought their house for five hundred dollars in 1864. Catherine spent her time raising their five children and selling milk door-to-door.

  The surrounding neighborhood was not terribly pleasant. The Near West Side was not only poor, it was also a hotbed of ethnic rivalries that flared on a regular basis. The O’Learys feared a riot similar to one that had just crippled New York: that same week, Irish Protestants and Catholics had clashed all over Manhattan. The Irish were already the most hated ethnic group in the country, and the ongoing strife didn’t help their reputation. The Irish were hated so badly that if they moved into a neighborhood, then everyone else— including blacks, who were hated in their own right— moved out. On the surface, the situation seemed tenable, but the O’Learys knew that nothing could have been further from the truth.

  Still, the family took things in stride and lived a mostly anonymous existence. The O’Learys kept to themselves, went about their routines, and tried to get by as best they could. With the summer heat at its height, they had barricaded their windows in a futile attempt to keep cool. They could hear the regular tolling of the Courthouse bell, but they didn’t think much of it. Since they didn’t read the paper, they didn’t know about a rash of fires afflicting the city. And so the O’Learys paid little attention as the lack of rain continued, the sun parched the wooden sidewalks, and Chicago grew drier by the day.

  BY SATURDAY MORNING, Simon had exchanged several telegrams with his family. He imagined how excited his parents must be, and he knew he would learn all the details by letter. But he still had mixed feelings over what his brother had done.

  As it turned out, J.J. had fled back to Rhinebeck to escape his gambling debts. Simon was annoyed that his brother had gambled so much in the first place; more importantly, he was furious at J.J. for handling it so badly, and for showing such a callous disregard for his son. Simon was now debating what to do next. On the one hand, his nephew had grown on him, and J.J. didn’t seem to be much of a father, so Simon was inclined to keep Tommy in Chicago. On the other hand, Simon’s parents could take care of the boy just as well, and it might be best for Tommy to grow up amongst the family, so perhaps Rhinebeck would be the best place for the boy. Simon weighed the two options, but he didn’t particularly like either one. Unfortunately, he knew he didn’t have time to dwell on it; he had to figure things out and move on.

  On top of all that, Simon had his hands full of work. He was sifting through Lillian’s real estate records and praying that the frauds wouldn’t affect him directly. He was also finding evidence of graft down in Bridgeport: the city wanted to build a second Water Tower, and several aldermen were advocating an expensive, poorly situated site. Simon knew there was sure to be dirty money involved.

  He had planned to spend his whole day doing research. He wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself, and he had already decided what his cover would be. Engineers had just reversed the Chicago River’s flow in an attempt to cleanse the water supply. It was an unprecedented engineering feat, and the celebration was to be just around the corner from the proposed Water Tower site. Simon knew the crowds would be large, so he assumed he could blend in quite well.

  But then, before Simon even left his house, Lillian raced up his steps. “Simon,” she gasped, “thank heavens you’ here.”

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you would watch Tommy—”

  “You haven’t heard, have you?”

  Simon blinked. “Heard what?”

  “It’s terrible,” she said. “Oh Simon, I’m afraid you’ friend’s fears have been realized, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you—”

  “What is it?” Simon asked.

  “Well,” she said, “Tad Lincoln is dead.”

  TAD, IT TURNED OUT, HAD SUFFERED A RELAPSE IN THE NIGHT. Robert had been called back to his brother’s side at four o’clock in the morning. Tad had spent hours fighting for breath, and he kept on squirming in his chair as his throat and lungs filled with fluid. Mary and Robert had tried desperately to save him, but they couldn’t clear his airway no matter what they tried. Finally, at a quarter till eight in the morning, Tad had choked out one last gasp. Then he slumped over in his chair and was gone.

  Robert couldn’t believe what had happened. He looked into Tad’s blank lifeless eyes, and he tried to call out Tad’s name. When Tad didn’t respond, Robert felt the tears welling up in his eyes, but he resisted the urge to lose his composure. Instead, he lowered Tad’s eyelids so he appeared to be sleeping; then he picked up the body and laid it out on the bed.

  Mary, meanwhile, was more distraught
than she had ever been before. She was in such a catatonic state that she was nearly unconscious. She had her own nurse, but no amount of nursing could alleviate her grief. Mary couldn’t bear to be reminded of Tad in any way. The mere sight of his things made her burst into tears. Mary knew she had to leave the Clifton House, but she was almost too weak to move. It was Lizzie Brown who helped her downstairs and assisted her into a carriage. The driver took her to Robert’s house, where she would stay for the time being.

  Robert wanted time to himself, but he found it nearly impossible. The following hours were full of activity: telegrams came in from every part of the country, while friends arrived to lend their support. The undertaker prepared Tad’s body for burial. Several reporters came by, but the last thing Robert wanted was to sit for an interview.

  “You people are vultures,” Robert said when Simon entered the room. “You just wish to pick over an intemerate soul.”

  “That’s not true,” Simon replied. “I’m not one of them.”

  “Of course you are,” Robert shot back. “All day long, you write of others’ misfortunes. May God only help you if our own misfortunes ever land in the papers, for then you’ll see what sort of misery you’ve wrought on us all.”

  Simon was speechless. He tried to formulate a response, but he didn’t know what to say.

  After a moment, Robert licked his lips and turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just... I must be alone for a bit.”

  Simon swallowed. “Of course,” he replied. Then he turned, left the room, and pulled the door shut behind him.

  WHILE SIMON STAYED TO HELP, Lillian took Tommy to her home. She couldn’t stop thinking of Tad, and she kept remembering the stories that she’d read about him. The papers had always portrayed Tad as a prankster, and Lillian had to admire a boy with such a sense of humor. She didn’t know the Lincolns particularly well, and she knew that Robert didn’t like her. But her heart went out to the family nonetheless.

  Lillian was so lost in thought that she allowed Tommy to go tearing through her home. The boy had been cooped up in Simon’s house all week, so he was bursting with energy and needed a release. Tommy ran through the rooms, screaming and knocking over chairs as he went.

  Lillian’s father, however, was not amused in the least. Archibald Andrist cared about practically nothing but his work, and the last thing he wanted was a bothersome child in his midst. “So this is what I get for all my years of effort?” he asked. “My daughter, reduced to a veritable nanny— may God help us all.”

  “Come off it, Fathe’,” Lillian shot back. “Do you not care that a young man has just died? Have you no heart?” She scooped up Tommy and took him into her arms. “There is mo’e to life than sewing apparel all day, or asking othe’s do it while you keep the proceeds you’self— which I say is not much different from slavery itself.”

  Tommy frowned and waved to Lillian’s father. “You bad,” he said.

  “Now now,” Lillian replied. “You must not hold it against him, Tommy, as he seems to know no better.” She stared at her father for a moment, then she turned her back and walked silently away.

  ROBERT DIDN’T WANT TO GO TO BED THAT NIGHT, for he knew he couldn’t possibly sleep. But he also knew he had to try; he had gotten almost no rest in the past twenty-four hours, and now his own fever was getting worse.

  Robert tossed and turned for hours. By midnight, he lay sprawled across his wife’s side of the bed with the sheets twisted around his limbs. The ticking of a clock echoed through the house, underscored by the buzz of a mosquito down the hall. Robert stared up blankly. He noticed a spot on the ceiling that he hadn’t seen before, and he found himself wondering what it might be.

  Robert couldn’t shake his feeling of self-loathing. He thought of the last time his family had gone through such grief. He kept remembering that fateful Easter weekend more than six years before, when he had watched his father draw his last breath. Robert still felt guilty over what had happened that night. Now he also felt guilty over what had happened to Tad, because he felt responsible for the way he’d fallen ill. Robert felt like a failure; he hadn’t been there when his father and brother needed him the most, and he felt they had paid with their lives.

  Robert vowed never to make the same mistake again. He clenched his jaw and lay motionless for a while. Then he sighed, whipped away the covers, and stumbled out of bed.

  He was surprised to find Simon still sitting in the parlor. Simon was poring over a letter, and Robert could distinctly hear the scratching of his pen.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Robert said. “I know you’re making a living. My friend John Hay does the same... so I pray you won’t hold my words against me.”

  Simon looked up at Robert. An awkward silence hung in the air. “I won’t,” Simon finally said.

  Robert shrugged and sat down at the table. “What makes you stay here so late?” he asked.

  “Well,” he said, “with Lillian watching my nephew, I wished to make myself useful... and I felt this was the best place for me to be.”

  Robert looked into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Simon replied. “I—” But then he found he couldn’t finish his sentence. He felt a pang of guilt as he looked at the letter he’d been writing to his family. “I’m sorry,” he said as he stuffed the letter in his suit coat. “I shouldn’t have been doing this at such a sensitive time. I should have done it much earlier—”

  “It’s all right,” Robert said. “You needn’t tear yourself apart... you’ve been a much better friend than I ever could have been.”

  Simon paused. “Likewise,” was the only thing he could say in response.

  SUNDAY MORNING FOUND PATRICK AND CATHERINE O’LEARY AT MASS. The O’Learys were devout Catholics who never missed a service at the Holy Family Church. On that particular morning, they listened to their priest give his usual warnings about pride, avarice, and other deadly sins; and he threatened fire and brimstone upon anyone who dared question the Lord.

  Afterward, when the family came home, Patrick and the children retreated indoors. Catherine, however, had chores to do that day. She had always been torn over her work, since she felt duty-bound to respect the Sabbath. But she also felt duty-bound to take care of her kids, and she had to sell plenty of milk for her family to get by.

  She walked down a dirt pathway that led from their house to the barn in the back. The O’Leary barn was wedged into the lot’s northwest corner. It was only one story tall, twenty feet long by sixteen feet wide. It had two sets of Dutch doors: the main doors opened onto the O’Learys’ backyard, while the rear doors opened onto an adjacent alley. The bottom halves of the doors were closed, but the top halves were open to let fresh air inside.

  Catherine went to a small shed attached to the barn. At first her hands were so full that she struggled with the latch. She was carrying a box of wood shavings that her husband had collected. The family used those shavings for kindling, most importantly for cooking, but also to keep their house warm in the winter. The O’Learys had no alternatives, since they couldn’t afford a stove.

  Catherine finally set down the box, opened the latch, and let herself in. She placed her box next to a growing stockpile of coal. Then she closed the shed door and went to tend to her animals.

  The family horse stood by the barn’s entrance. In the back were the family’s five cows, along with a sixth cow that belonged to a neighbor. The barn had no stalls, so the cattle simply lazed around with their halters tied to the walls. One cow mooed and flicked her ears in annoyance.

  Catherine simply went about her regular routine. She filled the trough, cleaned out the dung, and brought down fresh hay. She didn’t think anything of it; many of her neighbors had similar barns, so she considered it to be normal. She didn’t think of all that kindling as dangerous, since she was focused on more immediate concerns. She needed to put food on the table, and she had no time to worry about anything el
se. She wanted her children to be healthy, and her husband to be happy. To Catherine O’Leary, nothing else mattered— or at least so she thought.

  THE SERVICE FOR TAD WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SMALL, just a gathering at Robert’s home for their closest family and friends. But to Robert’s surprise, it attracted so many mourners that he struggled to accommodate them all. General Sheridan arrived in dress uniform; J. Young Scammon also attended, as did Joseph Medill, Deacon Bross, and many other dignitaries. Senator James Harlan even rushed in by train, although to Robert’s disappointment, Mary Harlan did not.

  Simon stood with Lillian in the rear of the parlor. There were only enough seats for a fraction of the mourners; the rest jammed the hallways and adjoining rooms. Some even stood on the balcony and porch, and they listened to the service through the open windows.

  The minister spoke of Tad’s devotion and his passions. He assured everyone that Tad— like all of God’s children— was immortal, and that he was not “lost” but only “gone before.” Robert looked at his mother, who was as stone-faced as a statue. He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to give her whatever comfort he could. Mary didn’t react; her eyes were fixed on the wall behind the pastor.

  A prayer and a hymn followed, after which the mourners were invited to pay their last respects. Mary and Robert both stayed seated, but many others filed past the coffin. Lillian wiped away a tear as she gazed at Tad’s face; he seemed so peaceful, although he had gotten so thin that his cheekbones stood out.

  Simon saw a poem displayed, which was a family tradition of sorts. Many years before, when Robert’s brother Eddie had died, Mary had composed a lament for her son. But, as it turned out, Mary was never able to write another such work. After so many more losses, Mary’s inspiration had failed her, so Lizzie Brown had brought out a poem by John Hay instead:

  In the dewy depths of the graveyard