1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “No,” Medill said. “I’m implying no such thing. But Horace Greeley landed a very good piece when she and your brother had first returned from Europe. Now she’s been in my city for months, and she’s been quite a devoted reader— but the Tribune and I have very little to show for it.”

  “‘Show’ is an improper word,” Robert said. “She’s a private citizen, not an exhibit. And aside from all that, you’re fully aware that my brother has died—”

  “Oh yes, it’s quite sad—”

  “Suppose you tell me what you’re really after,” Robert said. “You must have called me here for a reason. Is it regarding Mister Caldwell?”

  “You needn’t worry about your friend,” Medill said. “I’ve got my own plans for him. But I wonder if I could solicit your thoughts on a political matter.”

  Robert looked down. He saw that Medill was holding a pen and paper. “I’m sorry, but I have nothing to say that would interest the public,” Robert said. “When I have I want time to say it thoroughly and deliberately.”

  “You speak as a politician yourself,” Medill replied. “Your father would be proud.”

  “My father is dead, Mister Medill, and has been for some time,” Robert snapped. “I fail to see how he relates to all of this.”

  “As you know, our city shall hold a municipal election this year. We face a dearth of suitable candidates, and it could not have escaped your attention that your surname is political gold—”

  “So you wish to recruit me?” Robert asked.

  “I do,” Medill said. “Do you wish to accept?”

  Robert shook his head and rose from his seat. “No thank you,” he said. “I’ve far too many things in my life as it is. I attend strictly to my private business and have no time or inclination to consider public matters. And I hardly see enough in my record to warrant my singling out as a candidate, for I am first and foremost a lawyer—”

  “I’ve heard those words before,” Medill said.

  Robert licked his lips. “You did not persuade my father to run,” he replied. “He did so on his own, with no one’s pressure but my mother’s—”

  “Are you implying that you fail to support your father’s goals?” Medill asked.

  “I’m implying no such thing,” Robert said. “I am flattered for the thought. Good day to you, sir.” And with that, he turned and strode out the door.

  Simon was standing just outside the door. “What did he say?” Simon asked.

  “Never you mind,” Robert snapped. “Come with me.”

  LILLIAN, FOR HER PART, HAD GONE TO THE SITE OF THE BLAZE. She was particularly agitated that day. She kept thinking of a speech she’d just heard from the famous orator George Francis Train. “This is the last public address that will be delivered within these walls!” Train had said. “A terrible calamity is impending over the city of Chicago! More I cannot say— more I cannot utter.” Lillian didn’t quite know what he meant, but she resolved not to let her worries deter her.

  Lillian was now seeking shelter for all the fire’s victims. It was not an easy task. The streets were blocked off in every direction, and police and firemen were swarming about. Lillian couldn’t help being awed by the disaster’s sheer scale. It seemed as though a finger of God had touched down, crushing everything in its path. The William Jones fire engine sat crippled in Canal Street, while the Clybourne hose cart lay crushed under a building. A few outer façades were still standing, but their support structures had collapsed, so the walls leaned at unnatural angles. Ashes carpeted the ground, and the streets were full of unrecognizable debris. Firemen worked to extinguish the last pockets of flame, while the locals salvaged whatever possessions they could.

  Lillian made her way to the southern edge of the wreckage, where she saw the men of the Little Giant fire company. The Little Giant had been one of the first engines on the scene, so its men were now suffering from burns, smoke inhalation, and exhaustion. But despite all of that, the men were still at their posts, for Chicago firefighters never went off duty. The department couldn’t afford to hire multiple shifts, so its firefighters remained on the clock twenty-four hours a day.

  Lillian saw the Tribune reporters as they came down the street. She recognized the men and hoped that Simon was among them. But as the men approached, she realized he was nowhere to be seen. The men seemed unfazed by the carnage, for they joked and chatted as if nothing was wrong.

  “I hope we needn’t spend much time here,” George Upton was saying. “I must meet with Crosby today.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” G.P. English replied. “He’s hosting his concert tomorrow, is he not?”

  Upton nodded. “I find it long overdue. It’s a story I can cover without dirtying my shoes.”

  Lillian’s eyebrows went up, and she stalked over to the group. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I do not find that amusing. Do you mean to say that moneyed music patrons could somehow be superio’ to these impoverished souls?”

  Upton and English exchanged glances. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the group, until finally Fletcher Bingham spoke up.

  “You never can resist, can you?” he asked.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean—”

  “Your friend Simon ain’t here,” Fletcher said, “and the rest of us don’t want to hear of your guff. Now step aside, lady— you ain’t got no business here.”

  ROBERT WAS STILL FUMING WHEN HE AND SIMON PASSED POLK STREET. “This is absurd,” Robert snapped. “If I could count how many people expect me to be like my father, and how many discussions I’ve been forced to endure—”

  “I know how you feel,” Simon replied.

  “No you don’t,” Robert shot back. “No one else has been burdened with this charge. George Washington had no sons of his own, and no one was obliged to take care of his widow. And yet here I am, tortured and tormented by her nervous derangements. I caught her talking to Tad this past night— or at least making the attempt— and her condition is no better this morning. Who else, may I ask, has had to tolerate such afflictions?”

  “I’m sure she will recover—”

  “You needn’t try to reassure me,” Robert said. “You don’t know her as I do. You don’t know how desperate she was after the deaths of Willie and my father. And now her grief is worse than it’s ever been before.”

  Robert’s horse was trotting so quickly that Simon’s horse was struggling to keep pace. “What will you do?” Simon asked as he jostled the reins.

  “I don’t know,” Robert said. “I must speak with Doctor Smith. He must help her recover.”

  “Smith?” Simon asked. “I wasn’t aware that he’d worked with insanity.”

  “He hasn’t,” Robert said. “But he is discreet, and that is what I now require.”

  AT 5:35 PM, WEATHER STATIONS ACROSS THE COUNTRY SENT IN THEIR REPORTS. In Washington, the Weather Signal Office compiled the data and issued its forecast. The news was only getting worse for Chicago. A trough of low pressure was coming in from the west, and a cold front was bearing down from Canada. The system was dangerously unstable; strong winds were picking up in New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma, and were heading straight for Illinois. The air was hot and dry, and it kept speeding up as it approached the Great Lakes. By the time the wind reached Chicago, it was a veritable gale.

  The city’s weather station was on Clark Street. It had logged ever-higher temperatures over the course of the day, and its anemometer was spinning faster and faster. The signal officer knew that something was afoot, but even he didn’t think of the danger of fire. Most Chicagoans made note of the heat, and they saw the trees swaying and creaking, but they assumed it was just a case of Indian summer.

  Tommy stood on Belden Avenue with his face toward the wind. He held his arms outstretched at his sides, and he felt the air flow through his fingers. Then he took off running, veered off the sidewalk, and raced around to the back of the house.

  Billy Holbrook, Robert’s manservant, watched quie
tly from inside. Billy was an overweight but well-dressed young man. He had spent most of the day watching Tommy, and he was anxious to go home. But Simon wasn’t expected to be home for at least a few more hours, so Billy kept himself occupied as well as he could. The sky was starting to darken, and Billy found himself struggling to see what he was doing. He stared at a pair of silver candlesticks that sat on the mantle, and he wondered where Simon would most likely keep his matches.

  Tommy came barreling in from outside. “I hungry,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Billy replied. “Your uncle’ll be home in a jiffy. I don’t want to touch anything that he don’t want you to eat. So we just gotta wait.”

  MERCY HOSPITAL CREAKED AS A BLAST OF WIND HIT IT. The sun hung low in the west, forming brilliant orange hues that shone into the window and raked across the floor. As Simon looked out, he could see a thin line of countryside on the horizon, half-hidden by the buildings of Bridgeport. In his mind’s eye he could see the broad expanses of grassland stretching all the way to the Rockies.

  Robert was running his hands through his hair. “My mother is no imbecile,” he said. “She’s one of the most intelligent people I know. She’s just... troubled.”

  Simon turned away from the window and looked at Doctor Smith. He was standing in a wide open space just below the building’s roof. A handful of burn victims were spread out across the room.

  “Well,” Smith said, “you do have my sympathies— most certainly you do. But a quick and simple solution does not exist.”

  “There must be something we haven’t considered,” Robert said. “We cannot let this happen; imagine what the headlines would say—”

  “The headlines would be a matter for your friend, not for me,” Smith replied. “As a physician, I can tell you that the help she needs is never easily provided— certainly not in the position in which she now lies.”

  “So you recommend commitment,” Robert said.

  “I didn’t recommend,” Smith replied, “but I do concede that it’s possible.”

  Robert shook his head. “I cannot do that,” he said. “Nor would my father have considered such a thing— I don’t wish to tarnish his legacy with allegations of a lunatic wife and an uncaring son.”

  Simon cleared his throat. “Your father did what had to be done,” he replied. “Now you must do the same.”

  “No, it isn’t the same in the least,” Robert snapped. “My father gave freedom to millions, whereas you are suggesting that I take it away from the one person I should honor the most... I cannot betray her in her hour of need.”

  “In your estimation,” Smith said, “is your mother a danger to herself?”

  Robert chewed his lip for a moment; then he looked at Simon, looked at the doctor, and finally took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he replied.

  CATHERINE O’LEARY FED HER HORSE AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, then put him away in her barn. She was done milking her cows for the day, and she had every intention of going to bed early. Her husband had just bought a new wagon with the proceeds of her work. The carriage stood behind the barn, and Catherine checked on it as she headed back to the house.

  Catherine didn’t feel well that night, and she knew she’d have to get up before five o’clock the next morning. And so, as soon as supper was over, she and her husband ordered their children to bed.

  The O’Learys were tossing and turning, but were not yet asleep, when they heard a knock on their door. “What’s the craic?” came a voice.

  Patrick opened the door and found Daniel “Peg Leg” Sullivan standing outside. Sullivan was one of the neighborhood characters. He hobbled about on a wooden leg, having lost the original in a railroad accident; he had been driving carts since he was a child, and now he made his living delivering oil. Sullivan was a regular visitor to the O’Learys, since his mother kept a cow in their barn, and he often dropped by to feed it.

  Sullivan saw that the family was in bed, but he didn’t seem to care. “I say McLaughlin will be havin’ a party,” he said.

  The O’Learys humored Sullivan as politely as they could. “Aye,” Catherine said from her bed. “Near’s I can say, Mrs. McLaughlin, her brother just arrived.”

  “From Ireland?” Sullivan asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” she said.

  Patrick and Catherine exchanged glances. They were embarrassed to be sitting there in their bedclothes, but Sullivan didn’t seem to notice. Catherine wondered if he might have been drinking.

  Sullivan pulled up a chair, made himself comfortable, and began chatting away.

  JOHN CHAPIN AND FLETCHER BINGHAM WERE JUST RETURNING TO CHAPIN’S HOTEL. Chapin was staying at the Sherman House, just across from Courthouse Square.

  “What is it you hold against Mister Caldwell?” Chapin asked.

  “His brother played me for a fool,” Fletcher said. “He ran from his debts, and now Simon wants to do nothing about it.”

  Chapin shrugged. “Well, I think you needn’t worry,” he said. “You stand to make a fortune in corn futures this year.”

  Fletcher rolled his eyes. Chapin did have a point, since the drought had driven up food prices, but that didn’t make Fletcher any less resentful. “I suppose,” he replied.

  “Well,” Chapin said, “I suppose I ought to retire. Good night, my young friend— I shall see you again on the morrow.”

  JUST WHEN THE O’LEARYS COULDN’T SEEM TO GET MORE ANNOYED, Sullivan’s friend Dennis Regan showed up. Regan was another one of the neighborhood misfits, a young lad who lived down the street. The O’Learys tried to subtly shoo both Sullivan and Regan away, but neither of the men seemed to notice.

  “What’s the r’ason you gone to bed so soon?” Sullivan asked.

  Their fourteen-year-old daughter spoke up. “She’s a headache,” she replied. “And her foot is sore, so it is.”

  Patrick turned red with embarrassment. “Whisht!” he snapped. “Go to sleep.”

  Regan and Sullivan looked at each other. They gradually picked up the message and decided to leave.

  As the O’Learys returned to bed, Patrick and Catherine shook their heads with annoyance. Patrick said good night to his wife and children, then turned off the gaslamp and tried to go to sleep.

  AT THAT MOMENT, Fire Marshal Robert Williams was heading home for the night. Williams was exhausted; the recent rash of fires had kept him from getting much sleep, so he had been living off of occasional catnaps. On top of his work at the previous night’s “battleground,” he had inspected two firehouses and had been called out to two new alarms over the course of the day. And he had a nagging premonition that his trials weren’t over. The wind was blowing so hard that it nearly pulled his hat off; he had to hold the hat down to keep it from flying away.

  Williams tried to ignore his fatigue, as he knew he couldn’t afford to be tired. For years, he had made it a point to respond personally to each alarm that came in. He even had a machine set up in his bedroom, which was wired into the city’s system. Whenever an alarm sounded— sometimes two or three times a night— he would rush outside to join his men at the fire. It didn’t matter how many alarms came in, or what types of conditions he would have to face, or what other events were going on in his life. As Williams saw it, his duty was his duty, and it was as simple as that.

  Williams lived in a boardinghouse on Randolph Street. It was a humble little place; his wife’s piano seemed to be the only extravagance in sight. Williams wearily trudged up the stairs. “I am going to bed early,” he said to his wife. “I feel as though I have got to be out between this and next morning, the way the wind is blowing.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Williams said, “so long as you get as much sleep as you can.” She was used to that lifestyle, so she didn’t give it a thought. She just sat in their drawing room, reading a book, while her husband undressed in the bedroom.

  Williams laid out a clean uniform next to his bed. He wanted it ready in case he had to leave quickly. Then he whipped open his covers, flu
ffed up his pillow, and laid down in bed. He tried to fall asleep right away, but his bedroom door was ajar, which allowed light to shine into the room.

  “Darling,” he said, “I either wish you would go to bed or close the door so I can go to sleep.”

  “Of course,” his wife said. She got up, closed the door, and went back to her reading. Williams closed his eyes and dozed off.

  ROBERT AND SIMON FINALLY LEFT THE HOSPITAL AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK. Robert headed home, while Simon made his way back toward the disaster scene. The sky was completely dark, and most of the stars were visible. The sounds of the city seemed to melt away, creating an almost unnatural quiet. The horses’ hooves echoed as Simon headed down Twenty-Sixth Street.

  Simon knew how distressed Robert was, and he wanted to find a way to help. After all, Robert had given him so much assistance, and Simon wanted to somehow repay all of his debts. But at that moment, Simon couldn’t think of a single thing to be done.

  He turned north and crossed the river. The runoff from the stockyards had stained the water red with blood. Simon passed the Fort Wayne Depot, which was usually bustling but was now quieting down for the night. Simon saw a lone drugstore that was still open for business; an alarm box sat quietly on the store’s outside wall. The other nearby stores were shutting off their lights, one after the other, all the way down the block.

  On Canal Street, a couple of kids played in their yard until their mother ordered them inside. A nearby cat meowed at a window, asking to be let in for the night. Two drunks stumbled down the street in the distance, staggering from side to side and belting out off-tune renditions of “Tramp Tramp Tramp.”

  Patrick and Catherine O’Leary were fast asleep by then, as were all five of their children. The O’Learys’ tenants were celebrating in the front part of the house, and nine distinct voices could be heard through the walls.

  At the party, Patrick McLaughlin was playing the fiddle while his guests clapped and sang along. The party was for his “greenhorn” brother-in-law, Denny Connors, who was now dancing the polka. One reveler had brought beer from a nearby saloon, but several of the guests wanted something else to drink. There was some talk of making milk punch, but the McLaughlins didn’t have the ingredients. One man suggested going back to the barn.