Robert didn’t want to put himself through any such ordeal, and he didn’t want his mother to be burdened with it either. There had to be a different solution, he thought, and he wracked his brain trying to figure out what it might be.
A shadow crossed his face, and Robert looked up to see his mother tiptoeing past the doorway. Mary didn’t seem to see him, and Robert didn’t know how to respond. It took him a moment to realize that his mother was sleepwalking. She was wandering through the house with no apparent purpose, and her eyes were glazed over as if in a trance. Robert thought about waking her up, but then he decided against it, and he followed her down the darkened hall.
Mary walked past a window that had been left open in the heat. Her nightgown flapped and fluttered; her brown-and-silver hair had fallen out of its bun, so little strands were trailing out behind her. Mary seemed oblivious as she headed downstairs, crossed the living room, and stared out at the yard. She slowly put up her hands and leaned back.
“Mother?” Robert said. He was starting to get frightened, but he didn’t know what to do. Robert tried to look into her eyes, but before he could do anything, she turned and headed back upstairs.
Robert’s forehead broke out in a sweat; he didn’t know if it was because of the heat, or because of his fear, or because of something else altogether. He began worrying about how he would provide for her care. If he didn’t send her to the State Hospital, then he would have to arrange for her treatment himself, and that would probably entail hiring someone to watch her full-time.
Mary went to her bedroom, laid down, and half-consciously pulled the covers to her neck. She made sure to stay on the left side of the bed, to leave room for her husband on the right. Robert chewed his lip as he watched his mother drift further and further into sleep. He wondered if she would remember anything when she woke the next day, but then he decided that it didn’t really matter.
Robert turned and headed back to his room. As a lawyer, he knew he would need to document whatever he decided to do. He would also have to come up with some money; he had just paid for Tad’s funeral, and he was supporting his wife and daughter in Washington. Robert wasn’t sure if he could afford a caretaker on top of all that, at least not with the income from his own little firm. Then he thought of Scammon’s firm, which was larger and more profitable, and which had worked on a lot of insanity cases. Maybe, he thought, he should consider Scammon’s old job offer after all.
He gathered all of the papers that had sat in the drawer; then he bound them together and labeled them “Insanity File.” He stared at the papers for a moment, then threw them in his briefcase. After that, Robert went to bed himself, although he was far too guilt-ridden to sleep. He ended up tossing and turning for the rest of the night.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, the firemen were hosing down the ashes of the Burlington Warehouse fire. It was Chicago’s worst fire in years, and the whole building had been leveled. But Marshal Williams consoled himself by saying that it could have been much worse. At least his men had contained the blaze so that it didn’t spread to other buildings. Williams credited the department’s quick response. “Get it before it gets the start of you,” was his motto. “That is the only secret in putting out fires.”
But what no one liked to think about— and what Williams didn’t want to admit— was that the department’s funds and resources were being stretched to the limit. If the rapid-response system failed, and the men were delayed in getting to a blaze, then there was no telling what might happen next. Williams shuddered to think about it, since they would have no alternate plan. Still, with any luck, such a scenario would never come to pass— or at least so he hoped.
AT THE CORNER OF CLARK AND LAKE, the Law Offices of Scammon, McCagg and Fuller were just opening their doors for the day. The streets and sidewalks were already bustling; the firm was located in the heart of downtown, one block east of Robert’s own firm.
Robert strode into the building without saying a word. The secretaries tried to stop him, but Robert didn’t listen. He walked straight the office of J. Young Scammon himself.
Scammon was talking to client John Drake when Robert suddenly appeared. “Good morning,” Scammon said. “Why, this is quite a surprise.”
“You have prevailed,” Robert said. “I am ready to enter your employ in whatever manner you shall see fit.”
Scammon didn’t seem to believe him at first. “Why, you’ve been declining my offers for months,” he said. “What made you change your position?”
Robert shrugged. “Ideals will only bring you so far,” he replied.
SIMON WAS INTENT ON KEEPING TOMMY IN CHICAGO, but he didn’t know how he could responsibly care for the boy. Lillian was purposely avoiding him, and Simon couldn’t find anyone else to watch over the child. Simon worked from his home as often as he could, but his work was only intensifying. He knew he’d have to solve his dilemma, and fast.
The simplest solution was to reconcile with Lillian. But when he went to Terrace Row, instead of finding Lillian, he came face-to-face with her father.
“You have no business here,” Archibald Andrist said. “I doubt if my daughter should concern herself with you.”
Simon gulped. He recognized Andrist in a heartbeat, and he realized he’d met him at the Chicago Club months before. “Sir,” he said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Simon Caldwell, and I’m with the Tribune—”
“I know who you are,” Andrist said. “You’re the one whose child has been raising Cain in my home. Now I don’t know what my daughter is after— I don’t understand most young womenfolk these days— but she has no business going to the Tribune or associating with any of your ilk.”
“Mister Andrist—”
“What do you want?” Lillian asked as she appeared in the doorway.
Simon’s eyebrows went up. “Lillian,” he said, “I must speak with you.”
“What made you think I would?” she asked. “Do you not realize how overbearing you can be?”
Simon glanced at Lillian’s father, who was biting his lip. “Look,” he said, “I haven’t the time or the inclination to quarrel with you. For Tommy’s sake, I ask you to set aside your anger and think of the child.”
“That’s your responsibility, not mine,” Lillian shot back. “Isn’t it ironic: you preached to you’ brother about responsibility, and now you don’t wish to take your own advice. All I can say is that you brought you’self into this situation, so now you— not I— will have to find the way out.”
And then, before Simon could say another word, Archibald Andrist slammed the door in his face.
ROBERT’S NEW DESK OVERLOOKED LAKE STREET, and it had quite a view. The opulent Sherman House hotel was half a block to the south, and Courthouse Square was visible beyond. But Robert was in no mood to sit back and relax, for he was sick with self-loathing. He opened his briefcase and pulled out the Insanity File. Then he opened a cabinet, pulled out the drawer as far as it would go, and stuffed the file in the back. He didn’t want his mother finding the papers, and he assumed they’d be safer at his office than at home.
Scammon came in from the hallway. “Do you have everything you need?” he asked. “Is there anything you’d like?”
Robert slammed the cabinet shut. “No,” he said, “I believe I’m all right.”
“Very well then,” Scammon said. “I will be leaving town for a few days, but if you need anything, Mister Fuller will be in charge.”
Robert nodded but didn’t make eye contact. “I’m sure I’ll manage,” he replied.
ON OCTOBER 7, the warehouse fire dominated the Tribune’s front page. An ad boasted of a safe that had survived the inferno; to its right were ads for fire extinguishers, fire sales, and the like. In the middle of the page was a long list of blazes from Tennessee to Minnesota, several of which were still burning fiercely. The weather forecast predicted even more stifling heat for that weekend.
Catherine O’Leary, however, didn’
t see any of that. She was busy taking delivery of three tons of timothy hay. Her husband and children had to help her, since the hay had to be stored in their barn loft. The family worked together to hoist up the hay and get it put away properly. The barn was so small that they had to use every inch of available space.
Then, when the O’Learys were done, they left the barn and headed back to their house. The main barn door stayed open, since Patrick O’Leary had recently nailed it against the wall. Catherine preferred it that way, since it allowed her to enter the barn with her hands full. What the O’Learys didn’t consider was that it also allowed others to wander inside undetected. Despite their slipshod surroundings, the O’Learys had never thought that someone might sneak into their barn— for they couldn’t imagine why anyone would.
SIMON HURRIED INTO ROBERT’S OFFICE THAT AFTERNOON. “I need your help,” Simon told him.
“As do many others,” Robert said. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I haven’t the time—”
“And it seems I do?” Simon asked. “My hours are just as busy as yours. I must concern myself with Tommy, but I must also focus on my work, as Medill is bringing in a man from New York—”
“Simon—” Robert gritted his teeth and down his pen. “What?”
“I need your legal expertise,” Simon replied, “in regard to the corruption I’ve found.”
Robert nodded. “Well, I know little of such matters,” he said. “You should speak to the city prosecutor. Thomas Grosvenor should be able to assist—”
“What if he’s involved?” Simon asked. “What if he’s part of this political ring?”
“Listen,” Robert said. “You must stop acting this way. Your notions of a vast conspiracy are romantic but naïve. The city is corrupt, I agree, but the political situation is far more complicated than you realize.”
Simon frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. “Then what am I to do?” he asked. “I must have something to show Medill—”
“I understand that,” Robert said. “If it’s any consolation, I’m set to meet with him tomorrow. I promise to offer complimentary words.”
Simon chewed his lip. “Dare I ask the reason for your meeting?”
“I haven’t any idea. Medill simply told me he wished to have a word. He does that at times.”
“I see,” Simon replied. “Listen, my friend, I’m sorry if I seem a bit anxious—”
“Well,” Robert said, “much has been on edge these past days. We’re all human— there’s only so much we can do.”
Simon paused. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Listen, if you’re truly so concerned, I can have my manservant watch your nephew. Then, if I secure your place in your publisher’s good graces—”
“Now wait,” Simon quietly said. “I’m not asking for charity.”
“No, but you did ask for my help,” Robert said. “So I shall do what I can.”
AS SIMON HEADED HOME, an eerie red glow seemed to rise in the west. The distant clatter of fire engines echoed through the streets. The telegraph operators sounded an alarm, then a second, then a third. The Courthouse bell tolled so loudly that it was audible miles away.
Simon, however, paid no attention at all. His back was to the fire, and he was lost in thought. He wondered what his father would say, now that his long-awaited adventure had seemingly gone awry.
Had Simon turned around, he would have seen that the distant light was getting brighter. Tongues of flame were visible on the horizon. The fire was burning on the West Side, feasting on the neighborhoods that sat along the river.
The blaze was far larger than the Burlington fire— so large, in fact, that many bystanders considered it to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. But as it turned out, it was only a prelude to a much larger disaster, for a great deal more was still to come.
All the same, Simon missed the whole thing.
Chapter Nine: Terrible Calamity is Impending
“For days past, alarm has followed alarm, but the comparatively trifling losses have familiarized us to the pealing of the Court House bell, and we had forgotten that the absence of rain for three weeks had left everything in so dry and flammable a condition that a spark might start a fire which would sweep from end to end of the city.”
— Chicago Tribune
WHEN SIMON WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, the first thing he noticed was a pungent smoky smell. He looked out the window but didn’t see anything amiss. Brand-new buildings now filled the surrounding area, and the construction had moved northward past Fullerton Avenue. The sky seemed hazy, and the air was as stuffy as ever, but Simon didn’t see anything that would raise an alarm. And so he went ahead with his regular morning routine, making coffee, getting dressed, and waking his nephew. He saw nothing unusual until he left his house.
Just outside Simon’s door, in the middle of the sidewalk, lay a piece of charred wood. The sidewalk planks were cracked, implying that it had fallen with some force. Simon was confused because nothing else in the area was burned. He kicked at the timber, which promptly split apart, spilling ash onto the sidewalk planks underneath. Simon looked around and tried to figure out what had happened. Eventually he gave up, mounted his horse, and headed downtown.
As he rode away from his house, had no way of knowing that he was leaving it for good.
WHEN SIMON ARRIVED AT THE TRIBUNE, he found the newsroom in chaos. Men were running around and yelling across the room, the way they did whenever a major story broke. Deacon Bross was barking orders to the staff. Simon asked what had happened, but Bross simply handed him a copy of the paper. The headlines screamed in bold letters:
THE FIRE FIEND.
A Terribly Destructive Conflagration Last Night.
Twenty Acres of Buildings in the West Division in Ruins.
Lumber, Wood, and Coal Yards, Planing Mills, Stores, and Dwellings Burned.
The Adams Street Viaduct Destroyed— Narrow Escape of the Bridge.
Thousands of Citizens Witness the Grand but Awful Illumination.
The Loss Supposed to be in the Neighborhood of $1,000,000.
Scenes, Incidents, and Accidents Occasioned by the Fire.
DISCOVERED.
The sounding of the fire alarm from Box No. 248, at about 11 o’clock last night, was the solemn prelude to one of the most disastrous and imposing conflagrations which has ever visited a city which has already enrolled in her annals numbers of such visitations, many of them so terrible that they can serve as eras in her history....
Only a few minutes elapsed after the striking of the alarm before the flames were seen sweeping to the sky, and the lurid light that illuminated the horizon grew more and more powerful, casting its brilliant rays in every direction, bringing out in bold relief the fronts of the buildings which faced it from all quarters. The wind, seeming to rise as the flames did, set from the southwest, carrying with it in its onward rush streams of sparks, cinders, and partially-burned pieces of wood, which covered the sky with dazzling spangles, sweeping northeastward like a flight of thousands of meteors, but falling steadily in a fiery shower of rain.... They dropped with great force on the ground, to the occasional danger of lost passengers, and the scaring of horses, and showered upon the roofs of buildings, inspiring constant fears that other conflagrations would break out, and that a terrible broad area would be covered by the flames, and put it out of the power of the engines to combat them.
The article went on for another fifty column inches, describing the destruction in detail. The blaze had started in the boiler room of the Lull and Holmes Planing Mill, and it had completely destroyed four blocks full of buildings. It was now Chicago’s largest fire on record.
“Mister Caldwell?”
Simon turned around. G.P. English, the Tribune’s police reporter, was standing before him. “Medill wants us all to report on the blaze,” English said. “I’m leading a group of men to the site. Do you wish to come along?”
Simon was tempted to say yes. He knew how important the story woul
d be, and he didn’t want to stand idly by. But then he saw Fletcher waiting silently by the door. “What is Mister Bingham doing here?” Simon asked. “Is he with you?”
“Yes, he’s coming as well,” English said. “He’s a friend of Mister Chapin’s.”
Simon nodded. John Chapin was a guest of Medill’s. Chapin was the art director for Harper’s Weekly magazine, and he had been crusading against Tammany Hall in New York. Medill wanted Chapin’s help in his own corruption crusade. Simon knew he’d have to meet with Chapin soon, but he didn’t want to do it while Fletcher was around. “You may go without me,” Simon finally replied. “I have work to do here.”
“Very well then,” English said.
Simon and Fletcher stared at each other. Then, after a moment, English led the group away. Simon shook his head, ignored Fletcher’s glare, and headed toward his desk.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BUILDING, Robert had just been shown into Medill’s corner office. “Good day,” Robert said as he shook Medill’s hand.
“Likewise,” Medill said. “I am sorry to hear about your mother.”
“You’ve no reason to be sorry,” Robert said. Then he blinked and squinted. “What has anyone said of my mother?”
“I know very few specifics,” Medill said, “but I’ve repeatedly heard of her unfortunate state.”
Robert clenched his jaw. He couldn’t bear having his mother’s groveling state exposed to the public. “M-my mother is perfectly all right,” he said. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
“In that case, I’d be delighted to see her again. I wouldn’t mind an interview—”
“What? What is that supposed to mean? Are you implying that I’ve lied?”
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