1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Then the fire groaned, whipped around, and swirled into the sky. Simon watched as the wind picked up and a curtain of sparks flew over his head. The debris came down in a shower. One man jumped off his house as an ember slammed into his roof. Another watched as a cinder shattered a window and ignited the bedroom inside. Then a burning tree toppled over, sending a whirlwind of fire into the street. Simon dropped his pail and ran for cover.

  Marshal Williams was yelling to make himself heard. Only eight companies had arrived, and he knew they needed the whole department on the scene. He took William Henry Musham aside, since Musham was the one who knew the neighborhood best. Assistant fire marshal Matthias Benner stood by.

  “They’re being stretched too thin,” Williams was saying. “I want to head off the blaze to the north, but we cannot allow the wind to put us in a trap. Benner, I need you to find all of your men and move your equipment up the street.”

  “Yes sir.” Benner sprang into action as the fire roiled and roared all around him.

  By then, the blaze was visible throughout the West Side, and hundreds of gawkers were heading for the scene. One of them was former alderman James Hildreth. He caught Marshal Williams and gave him some unsolicited advice.

  “Marshal,” he said, “the fire is going away from you much faster than you’re putting it out. You’ll have to resort to some other method or else there is no knowing where the fire will stop.”

  Williams rolled his eyes. “Sir, I am doing everything I can in every way, shape, and manner.”

  Hildreth was not satisfied. “It would be a good idea to place the engines north of the fire and fight it up there.”

  “Sir, I am already doing that,” Williams replied. “And you fail to consider the strength of the wind, for it is carrying the fire beyond us. With the size of this blaze, I cannot cluster the engines in any one area. And I cannot risk the engines getting caught in the flames, for just last night we lost a great deal of equipment that way. If you please.”

  Without another word, Williams went back to work, leaving Hildreth alone on the sidewalk. Hildreth just glared.

  SIMON HEARD A DRUM OF KEROSENE DETONATE WITH A BANG. The explosion tore apart the wall of a building and sent two-by-fours flying in all directions. Simon spun around as the building’s timbers gave way in sequence— thunk! thunk! thunk!— and then, with a heave, the structure collapsed.

  Simon didn’t know what else he could do. He still wanted to help, but he knew his options were rapidly dwindling. He wiped the sweat off his brow and tried to keep his wits about him.

  Benner had also heard the explosion and was running toward the scene. Another assistant marshal, John Schank, was looking for him. “We must move now!” Schank yelled.

  “Where has the fire gone to?” he asked.

  “She’s off to hell and gone,” Schank replied.

  Benner looked around and tried to think quickly. He didn’t have time to organize his men, but then an idea came to him. “Musham!” he yelled.

  “Yes sir?”

  “I want you to assemble a group of civilians. Take them to Ewing Street, equip them with hoses, and form a barrier. With the wind, you’ll have to hose everything down. Now move quickly!”

  “Yes sir,” Musham said, then went running down the street. He pointed his finger at Simon. “You, you, and you,” he said as he picked out members of the brigade, “come with me.”

  JOHN CHAPIN WAS RELAXING IN HIS SHERMAN HOUSE SUITE. He had finished all of the things he had to accomplish that day, and he had closed the blinds, washed his face, and changed into his pajamas. Now he was reading in bed, and he was approaching the turning point of his favorite book:

  I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave and sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said, "Good-bye O my dear, dear friend!"....

  We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.

  Chapin reached the end of the chapter and looked up from the book. He wanted to read further, but he was getting very tired. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, and he put the book aside. He looked at his watch, which said it was not terribly late; but Chapin knew that his body was still on New York time. He figured he might as well go to bed early, and he assumed he’d continue his reading the next day.

  He put his watch under his pillow, made himself comfortable, and turned out the light. Then, slowly but surely, Chapin started to fall asleep.

  ARCHIBALD ANDRIST, MEANWHILE, WAS AT AN UPSCALE BORDELLO ON ADAMS STREET. He was near Conley’s Patch, but he had gone out of his way to find a place with some class. Now he was trying to pick out a girl. The ladies were nicely dressed, with not too much eyeliner and just enough rouge.

  “Would you like a drink, sir?”

  Andrist looked up. An attendant was standing by his side with an eager look on her face. “Can you not see that I am busy?” he snapped.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the attendant replied. “If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  Andrist gave a dismissive wave. He felt a pang of self-loathing, and he knew Lillian would disapprove of his actions. But Andrist had given up on getting his daughter’s approval; he didn’t understand her, and she didn’t understand him, and he assumed they’d have to leave it at that.

  Andrist ignored his guilt as he picked out a brunette, and together he and the woman headed for their room.

  JAMES HILDRETH HAD BEEN DISCUSSING THE FIRE WITH CITY ENGINEER JOSEPH LOCKE. Now the men were heading back to Marshal Williams. “May I have a word?” Hildreth asked.

  “What is it this time?” Williams asked.

  “Sir, you must create a firebreak,” Hildreth said. “You need to start tearing down buildings, or you must blow them up instead.”

  Williams frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “Marshal,” he said, “consider this. A fire needs three things to survive, namely heat, fuel, and oxygen. Correct? If any one element is removed, the fire must die out. If we remove the homes in the path of the fire—”

  “No,” Williams snapped. He assumed that Hildreth had read something about firefighting and now pretended he knew all about the art. As dry as the city was, Hildreth’s plan simply wouldn’t work. “I fail to understand why we’re discussing this matter, as I haven’t the power or the means to destroy private homes.” Williams tried to head toward the fire. “May I?”

  “I would get the powder if necessary,” Hildreth said.

  Williams paused and gritted his teeth. He looked at the flames, then looked back at Hildreth.

  “You have the wherewithal to fight this fire however you choose,” Hildreth said. “If you would allow me, I would get a thousand men to go through and tear down these buildings.”

  Locke chose that moment to enter the conversation. “I concur with Mr. Hildreth,” he said. “I think it’s a fine plan.”

  Williams clenched his jaw for a moment. Finally he turned back toward the fire. “Get your powder then,” he said, “and don’t bother me anymore.”

  AT THE TRIBUNE, G.P. English was staggering through the door. English typically worked nights, so he was accustomed to seeing sensational things. Joseph Medill liked to say that “he lives when all of the evil elements are astir.” But now even English was frantic over what was going on.

  He had just finished his reporting on the Saturday fire. As luck would have it, he had barely turned in his copy when the new alarm had sounded. English had immediately hired a driver to take him to the scene, and as soon as he had arrived, English knew it would be a disaster of epic proportions.

  Now, after less than an hour, the O’Leary fire had grown to the size of the Sa
turday blaze. Worse yet, there was no end in sight. The fire seemed ready to continue on its path until it reached the river a few blocks to the east. English was out of breath as he scrambled up the stairs. He was anxious to start writing, but he felt like a wreck: he was footsore, hungry, and covered in white ash.

  City editor Sam Medill didn’t blink. “Where is the fire?” he asked.

  “Everywhere,” English said.

  “Write it up,” Sam replied. And the Tribune began working on its biggest-ever story.

  AT THAT MOMENT, Mary Lincoln lay motionless in bed. She seemed fast asleep, and to Robert, her expression seemed perfectly peaceful. Robert was checking on her periodically; he didn’t quite know why, but he couldn’t help himself.

  Then he noticed that her medicine bottles were right by her bed. He didn’t think the bottles should be within close reach, since chloral hydrate could be dangerous if taken improperly. Robert tiptoed to Mary’s bedside, took the bottle in his hands, and surreptitiously put it away.

  “Taddie?” came a voice.

  Robert jumped, and he turned to see his mother fidgeting in bed. “It’s me,” he said. “Only Robert.”

  Mary kept her eyes closed. “Taddie... my Ta... is you... I....”

  Robert swallowed. He tried to imagine what she might be dreaming, and he tried to decipher what Mary was trying to say. “You may sleep soundly,” he replied. “Everything is all right— I shall make sure of that.”

  Mary didn’t respond. She seemed to mumble a bit, but she didn’t let out any intelligible words.

  Robert took a deep breath, closed the bedroom door, and headed down the hall.

  SIMON STOOD ON EWING STREET WITH MUSHAM AND THE OTHER CIVILIANS. Musham was barking orders and getting the equipment set up. The flames were fast approaching from the south.

  Simon felt a pang of fear, but he faced himself to ignore it. If his brother had stayed calm in combat, Simon thought, then he himself could do it too. And if the firemen could do their jobs day in and day out, then there was no reason why able-bodied civilians couldn’t do it just once. Simon took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and prepared himself for whatever might happen.

  The men gripped the hose and, with a heave, Musham turned on the water. The hose jerked backward as the stream surged through it. Simon held on and tried to aim the nozzle as best he could. At first he felt invincible, but as the flames drew closer, he began to feel insignificant. His instincts were telling him to run, but he thought that would be a cowardly thing to do.

  The wind picked up around him as the heat sucked up the air. The men struggled against the gusts. A column of flame growled hungrily as it rose above the trees. One man’s hat was blown off his head and pulled into the blaze. Musham didn’t flinch.

  Simon’s adrenaline was surging. He swung his body around as he tried to aim the hose correctly. The water blasted outward but vanished into the flames. The blaze lashed out, sending a fist of heat into the road. One man bolted, making the firehose churn in Simon’s hands. Water sprayed in all directions as the rest of the men tried to recover their grip. Finally the men regained control and steered their attention back to the inferno.

  By then the sound was deafening, and flaming debris was everywhere. The blaze filled Simon’s field of view; it had become a fiery sea, complete with its own currents, waves, and eddies. Simon was terrified, and he closed his eyes to keep from getting dizzy.

  The hose buckled and writhed as more people ran away. Musham jumped in and tried to salvage the situation, but it was too late. Simon took off running. As the last few civilians abandoned the firehose, Simon heard Musham yelling and screaming as he ran off to safety.

  Chapter Twelve: Imagining Things

  “An alarm of fire during the evening caused no anxiety, for it was a thing of frequent occurrence.”

  — John Chapin

  POLK STREET WAS DESERTED AS SIMON RAN TOWARD THE EAST. He was caught up in panic; he had spent a good hour trying to fight the fire, and he found he couldn’t do it. All he could hear was his breathing, and all he could feel was a sting in his lungs and an ache in his legs. He was too agitated to even look back.

  He raced across the river and entered the South Side. By the time he got to State Street, his pain was overwhelming. He let his body fall against a streetlamp, and he crumpled over as he tried to catch his breath. Sweat was dripping off his brow, and his shirt was wet and blackened. The wind blasted at his face, which only made his breathing more difficult.

  Simon hated himself for having run from the blaze. He couldn’t imagine how he would explain himself, and he didn’t know what example he was setting for Tommy. The more Simon thought about it, the more he realized how foolish he had been: he had rashly abandoned his horse three miles from home, and he had no idea what to do next.

  Simon coughed and began to look around. The wind was coming mostly from the south, and he was now well east of the fire, so he assumed he was safe. Simon mustered up his strength, wiped the sweat off his brow, and began to consider what options he might have.

  TERRACE ROW WAS SILENT AS SIMON SCURRIED UP THE STEPS. He pounded on the door, and after what seemed like a long wait, the half-asleep manservant answered.

  “Can I help you sir?” the man asked in a droning snooty voice.

  “I must see Lillian,” Simon replied as he hurried up to her room.

  Lillian was in her nightgown, reading a book by a gas lamp. Her curtains were shut, and she gave every indication of being ready for bed.

  “Simon?” she asked. “What a’e you doing?”

  “You were right,” he said, “in everything you said about me... you were right.”

  “What the devil?” Lillian asked. “You look terrible— what has happened?”

  “There’s a fire,” he said, “another one—”

  “What? Where is it? And how large—”

  “It’s enormous,” he said. “Please don’t go on another crusade, for it’s no use trying to fight it—”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “We must do something quickly to help.” She got up and strode toward the hall. “And you require a change of clothes. Your current appearance is quite unacceptable.”

  “I’m not going back—”

  “Sidney!” she called out. “Ready some hot water!” She looked back at Simon. “He should be roughly you’ size.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Sidney is the servant boy. His clothes should nea’ly fit you.”

  “Lillian—”

  “Don’t question me, Simon,” she replied. For a brief moment, she considered fetching her revolver from her closet. Then she decided against it and headed downstairs. “You must follow me.”

  ROBERT WAS BUSY WRITING TO HIS WIFE WHEN HIS BEDROOM DOOR FLEW OPEN. “Mother!” he said as he jumped with surprise. “You startled me.” He looked into her eyes. “What is it?”

  Mary was waving both hands. “Fire!” she said. “Robert, it’s a fire, I just saw it in the west—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Robert said. “Are you still going on about that?” He rose from his chair. “Mother, I love you, but you must calm yourself. I cannot bear to see you imagining things. I know you may not realize when it happens, and I’m sure you think you see the truth, but—” Robert stopped in midsentence. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “My son,” Mary said, “you must listen to me. I am almost helpless, I am unable to wait upon myself, and I am suffering greatly with violent palpitation of the heart—”

  “Enough,” he said as he led her back to her room. “Mother, you’ve made yourself quite clear. But the fire last night has since burned itself out. It’s no longer a danger to anyone.”

  They reached Mary’s bedroom, but Mary didn’t go inside. She just looked into her son’s eyes. “Robert?”

  “Listen,” he replied. “I know you are doing the best that you can. And I realize there’s only so much that a mortal can face. But you needn’t worry— I would never let anything happen t
o you.”

  Mary seemed to consider his words. Then she swallowed and nodded. “I am so weary of grief,” she replied. “I know you are better prepared than I to pass through the fiery furnace of affliction—”

  “It’s not that,” Robert said.

  Mary kept on speaking as she gazed into the distance. “M-my mind has dwelt so much upon its sorrows that I feel morbidly sensitive and terrified at times, especially when speaking with those I love the best.”

  “What do you mean?” Robert asked. “I never meant for you to be afraid of confiding in me, or of coming to me for any purpose whatever. And I never meant to sound uncaring, it’s just— it’s so—”

  “You’ve been always a good son,” Mary said. She put her hand on Robert’s cheek. “How dearly I love you.”

  Robert looked straight into her eyes. He tried to keep a stiff upper lip, but inwardly, he couldn’t help thinking that his mother might truly be crazy.

  SIMON OPENED THE DOOR TO THE LIVERY, casting light into the otherwise pitch-black stables. Lillian held up a lantern and illuminated two rows of horses. One of the animals snorted and pawed at the ground with its hoof.

  “It’s all right,” Lillian said as she stroked the horse’s muzzle. She turned to Simon. “This is the strongest stallion we have. I expect that we’ll need him.”

  Simon had no intention of going back to the blaze, but Lillian was adamant. She untied the horse, saddled him up, and handed Simon the reins.

  “Lillian, I question how much we can accomplish—”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Lillian said. She untied her strongest mare. “I’m not about to stand idly by at a time such as this.”

  “So I said myself,” Simon replied, “a mere hour ago.”

  “Pe’haps things have changed. Why should we not see what is happening now?”

  Simon sighed and mounted his horse. He didn’t want to argue, and he did have to admit that Lillian could be right. He clucked his tongue as she saddled up her mare. Then Lillian climbed into her seat, and she and Simon headed back toward the blaze.