JOHN CHAPIN WAS LYING QUIETLY IN BED. The tolling of the bell filtered through the window, creating a low throbbing in Chapin’s ears. He had been fast asleep, but the din was almost impossible to ignore, and now someone was rattling a key in the door. Chapin squinted and lifted his head from the pillow.
“Who’s there?” he asked. “What do you want?”
There was no answer. Chapin looked around and wondered if someone was trying to break in. But Chapin didn’t have any valuables there: next to his bed lay his sketchbook, along with a couple of charcoal pencils, and that was all. If someone was trying to rob him, he thought, then he didn’t seem to have much worth stealing.
Finally the footsteps disappeared, and Chapin told himself that someone had made a mistake. Perhaps another hotel guest had tried to open the wrong door. Or perhaps there was another explanation— hopefully just as benign.
As Chapin tried to fall back asleep, he did his best to ignore the muffled sound of the bell. After all, he thought, it had been a dry summer. Weren’t fires a fact of life in Chicago?
CONLEY’S PATCH WAS JUST STARTING TO LIVEN UP FOR THE NIGHT. It was a time-honored routine: after dark, people would start drifting into the bars. The tables would fill up, one after the other, with haggard individuals who were always playing faro and poker and the like.
On Adams Street, the cops were hauling away gambler Garland Farragut. They were taking him to the County Jail, but Farragut was yelling and screaming about the injustice of it all. He made such a scene that no one noticed the macabre glow in the distance.
Further north on Wells Street, Andrist and his prostitute had just finished up. Now the brunette was staring out the window.
“Natalia, come back here,” Andrist said.
“Something’s happening,” she replied.
Andrist snorted. “I’m sorry?”
The girl stepped away from the window and let Andrist look out. Men were running down the sidewalk with news of the blaze. The news spread from tavern to tavern, man to man, and a few enterprising fellows started racing toward the scene.
“What the devil?” Andrist asked.
Passersby turned their heads, demanding to know where everyone was going. Someone threw a beer bottle, which shattered against a curb.
“Look,” Natalia said as she gazed toward the west. “What is that?”
Andrist took one look at the spectacle, and suddenly everything seemed to make sense.
“Mother of Christ,” he said. “It’s a bloody fire.” Then, after a moment, he realized that the fire was headed toward his factory. “I must go,” Andrist said.
THE BELL OF SAINT PAUL’S CHURCH HAD JUST TOLLED TEN O’CLOCK when a firebrand flew a quarter mile and slammed into the steeple. Wreckage rained onto the building’s roof, and the shingles started to ignite. Marshal Williams dispatched engines to the scene, but it was too late.
Inside the building, smoke poured into the nave. Firemen raced inside to save what they could. The ceiling shuddered as debris tumbled across the roof and fell past the windows. Then, in a flash, the steeple collapsed, and the timbers burst through the ceiling. Large fragments crashed onto the chancel, sending the firemen fleeing for their lives.
The flames pounded against the walls, and the windows shattered, sending shards of stained glass flying in all directions. Images of Sodom and Gomorrah and the Tower of Babel disappeared within seconds. Crackling and groaning sounds filled the air. The curtain in front of the nave was torn into shreds. The flames surged on relentlessly, devouring pew after pew. A crucifix burst through the fire and crashed against the floor, and the brass figure of Christ watched as the building gave way.
SIMON AND LILLIAN WERE AT THE CORNER OF STATE AND HARRISON when they saw the second column of flame in the distance. The fire was still nearly eight blocks away, but they could already feel its power.
Lillian brought her horse to a halt. “My God,” she said.
Simon looked up. A man was standing on his roof and watching the fire with grim fascination. Simon began looking around, and he saw dozens of people leaning out of windows or standing by their doors. Some of the more morbid gawkers had even brought out chairs, and they sat on the sidewalk with children on their laps.
Lillian swallowed hard. “You were right,” she said. “There is nothing we can do.”
Simon looked at her and nodded. He could see it was hard for Lillian to give up, but at the same time he saw she was accepting the truth.
“So what shall we do now?” Lillian asked.
Simon considered going home, but then he decided against it. His home was on the opposite side of Chicago, so he was sure it was safe. The more Simon considered it, the more he felt he had other places to be. He gripped his horse’s reins. “To the Tribune,” he said.
ON THE NORTH SIDE, Simon’s house was silent except for one muffled voice.
“Simon?”
The kitchen door opened, and Tommy stepped in. “Simon?” he called out again. “Where are you?”
But he didn’t hear a response.
Tommy wasn’t particularly frightened, but he did feel a strong pang of anger. He went to the pantry, found a jar of oatmeal and poured it into a bowl. Then he pulled a chair up to the sink, poured in some water, and sank his fingers into the food.
Every little noise seemed to echo through the house. Shadows raked across the ground, forming strange patterns on the floors. Dust wafted through the stray rays of light.
Tommy looked up. He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean. Then he sank them into the bowl for another helping.
Several windows rattled, creating a ratch-atch-atch that frightened Tommy to no end. A soft glow was visible in the distance. Two leaves came off a tree and blew against the house. The wind made a barely audible sound as it whistled down the street.
A fly buzzed in Tommy’s face, and he jumped back, flinging the bowl across the table. The dish shattered against the floor, and shards flew in all directions.
Tommy put his hands to his mouth. “Simon?” he cried. “I scared.”
But there was still no reply. A few more voices echoed from outside. Tommy held his breath for a moment, then exhaled when the sounds disappeared. His big brown eyes searched for any signs of movement.
He lowered himself from his chair and eyed the mess on the floor. He knew he would slip if he tried to walk through it. He turned, went to the parlor, locked the front door, and laid down on the couch.
And Tommy’s wait continued.
SIMON AND LILLIAN RUSHED NORTH THROUGH DOWNTOWN. Behind them, they could hear the maelstrom gaining strength. The crackling sounds were audible from nearly a mile away. Simon looked back and saw that both fires had grown. The O’Leary blaze was advancing in two directions, and the Saint Paul’s blaze was heading north with the wind. The two fires were about to merge and combine forces; Simon knew it was only a matter of time.
The State Street storefronts were largely deserted, but a handful of businessmen were heading to their offices. The taller buildings were attracting gawkers, since the upper-floor windows offered panoramic views. A few people asked the police what was happening, but the officers just rushed southward without giving an answer. Flaming embers were raining down in the distance, but few people sensed any danger.
Simon reached Madison Street and turned left. His heart pounded as he and Lillian rode up to the Tribune. Shouts and footsteps were audible inside. Simon and Lillian drew up their horses, put them in the rear stables, and headed into the building.
THE ANDRIST TEXTILE COMPANY LAY IN ONE OF THE MOST FLAMMABLE NEIGHBORHOODS IN TOWN. It was a block away from Saint Paul’s Church, surrounded by a furniture-finishing company, a pair of lumberyards, and a shingle mill. The blaze could hardly have picked a worse place to hit. The area’s saving grace was the river, which seemed to block the fire from spreading much further.
Archibald Andrist had just arrived from Conley’s Patch, and he was scrambling to rescue his records. Andris
t was under no illusions over what would happen next. His factory was full of yarns, threads, and swatches of cloth, all of which would ignite in a flash. Andrist’s safe was supposed to be fireproof, and he could only hope that its seller’s guarantees would hold true.
One of his foremen, Karol Borusewicz, came into his office. “I have the items you requested,” Borusewicz said. “Ledgers, correspondence, a record of your insurance—”
“Mm-hm,” Andrist said. He swallowed and put his hand to his forehead. His mind was spinning as he thought of his years of hard work burning up. “Place it all in the vault,” he said. “I shall retrieve it later... that is....”
Borusewicz looked at his boss. “That is, what?” he asked.
Andrist shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “I meant nothing.” He watched as Borusewicz arranged the papers in the safe; then Andrist shut its door, spun the dial, and walked out the door.
Out front, the mayhem was only escalating. Saint Paul’s Church had been reduced to rubble, and now Bateham’s Shingle Mills were beginning to ignite. The mills’ owner, William Bateham, was enlisting bystanders to draw water from the river; he owned a steam-powered pump, and he had stretched a hose across the lot. Marshal Williams was also trying to gain control of the blaze. The department had now mobilized every engine in the city, and three companies were fighting the Saint Paul’s fire, but nothing seemed to have any noticeable effect.
“Jesus, Lord in Heaven,” was the only thing Andrist could say.
“Sir!” came a voice. “Step back quickly!” And a deluge of water came blasting through the air.
Andrist put up his hands, but the water splashed right through them, and he felt a sudden cold as his clothing soaked through. Andrist swore and wiped his eyes. He blinked, then squinted as he tried to gauge the danger. The two columns of flame were now melting together, and Andrist nearly found himself trapped. The O’Leary blaze was moving in from the south, and the Saint Paul’s fire was blocking his escape to the west. Buildings hemmed him in on the north, and the river hemmed him in on the east. The only avenue of escape— as far as Andrist could see— was down Ellsworth Street, which would take him to the Polk Street Bridge. Andrist’s heart was pounding so hard that he began to see stars, and he struggled to keep his senses about him, but he forced himself to keep moving.
Suddenly he saw a flash, and Andrist found himself thrown to the ground. It took him a moment to realize what had happened: a boiler had exploded, sending hot steam cascading through the air. Andrist felt his skin sizzle, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. All the sounds seemed muffled, since the bang had caused him to briefly go deaf. Andrist looked around in a panic. He had assumed that Borusewicz would stay by his side, but now Borusewicz had vanished into the fog. Andrist realized that he’d gotten turned around, and with the visibility so poor, he couldn’t tell which direction was which. Firemen emerged from the ether like specters; they seemed to be shouting out orders, but to Andrist the sounds were all garbled. The lights of the fires diffracted through the steam, making the air itself seem to glow in the heat.
Andrist felt another explosion, and the nearby buildings shuddered. Then a gust of wind came up, and the steam cleared away. Slowly but surely, Andrist started to regain his bearings. He saw that the fire was pressing on toward the north: Bateham’s Mills were nearly gone, the Garden City Match Factory was engulfed, and the adjacent lumberyards were beginning to ignite. In the distance, Marshal Williams was sprinting up Canal Street with the Fred Gund close behind him. The ground was nearly carpeted with debris, and Andrist had to jump beneath an awning to dodge a falling chunk of wood.
The blaze was so intense that Andrist thought he was done for. He was almost surprised at how calm he was about it; the reality of it had yet to sink in. Then he thought of his daughter, and he realized he had to find a way out. The path down Ellsworth Street was still clear, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Andrist crept out from under the awning and craned his neck around.
Then, as he watched, the impossible happened. A blast of wind hit Bateham’s Mills and wrenched loose several large timbers. The debris sailed hundreds of feet into the air, passed effortlessly over the river, and disappeared behind the nearby buildings. They flew so far away that Andrist could only guess as to where they might land.
“Great God almighty,” he said as a new plume of fire erupted in the distance.
The fire had now spread further than anyone had expected. It had jumped the biggest barrier in its path, and there was no way of knowing where— or even if— it would stop.
Chapter Thirteen: The Devil It Is
“The wind was blowing very strong at this time from the southwest... I do not think it was more than half an hour after I gave the first alarm before sparks began to fall about the Courthouse.”
— Mathias Schaefer
THE FIRST SOUTH SIDE BUILDING TO BURN WAS PARMELEE’S STABLES on the edge of downtown. The building belonged to the Parmelee Omnibus and Stage Company, which operated several coach and streetcar lines in the city. The structure was brand new, and the horses were scheduled to be moved in two days later. The walls were freshly painted and the lofts were full of hay, but aside from that, the building was empty.
At first Marshal Williams didn’t realize what had happened. He was a quarter mile away, fighting alongside the Long John and the Fred Gund. His men were trying to cut off the fire on the West Side, but they kept having to retreat further and further north. They were now in front of the Lull and Holmes Planing Mill, where the Saturday fire had started. Williams assumed that the four burned-out blocks would now serve as a firebreak. Unless the blaze could jump to Adams Street— and he didn’t think it could— there wasn’t much left to burn.
The Long John’s foreman, Alex McMonague, ran to get a new length of hose. He grabbed a large roll, lifted it onto his shoulder, and started back toward his engine. But then he looked to his left and dropped the hose.
“The fire is on the South Side!” he exclaimed.
Marshal Williams scoffed. “The devil it is,” he replied.
“You look!”
Williams did, and he saw the Parmelee’s fire off to the east. He felt his stomach churn as he realized what that meant. The fire was now aiming for the heart of the city, and he could no longer think of any good way to fight it.
Williams tried his best to stay calm. “Go for it,” he said to McMonague. “I will be there in a minute.”
The foreman nodded and rounded up his men. The nearest bridge had been destroyed the night before, so in order to cross the river, the engine had to go several blocks out of its way. McMonague didn’t know if his men could reach Parmelee’s in time.
It was now half past eleven. The fire had been burning for a little more than three hours.
IN ANOTHER PART OF THE SOUTH SIDE, Robert Lincoln lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was fretting over his mother’s delusions, and he kept thinking of what Doctor Smith had said. Robert felt a chill go down his spine, and a fearful restlessness swept over his body.
Robert thought of his father, who had always taken Mary’s foibles in stride. In some ways, Robert thought his father had been foolishly optimistic, and that he had turned a blind eye to Mary’s troubles. But then again, Robert thought, that same optimism had taken him to the White House and had in many ways saved the nation. Robert didn’t want to think— and didn’t want the public to feel— that the great Abraham Lincoln had mishandled anything, least of all his own wife’s wellbeing.
Robert tiptoed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. As he crossed the living room, he sensed something amiss. At first he couldn’t pinpoint it, but then he realized that a strange light was wafting through the curtains. He frowned, walked up to the window, and pulled the curtains aside; and then he quickly realized what his mother had seen.
At first he didn’t know how to react. Robert stood frozen with his eyes fixed on the spectacle. “Mother of God,” he said.
Robert tu
rned to run up the stairs, but then he stopped himself in mid-step. Perhaps it was best not to warn his mother, he thought, since he couldn’t predict how she would react. His house was in no immediate danger; it was well southeast of the fire, and he could see that the wind was still blowing toward the north. At first Robert felt relieved, but then he thought of the Insanity File, which was sitting in his office cabinet— and which, he now realized, was likely in the fire’s path.
Robert looked toward his mother’s room but saw no sign of movement. He knew he had to do something, but he didn’t want to leave Mary home alone for too long. There was no time to contact Billy Holbrook, since he lived too far away, but perhaps Lizzie Brown would be able to help.
Robert felt his heart pounding as he gathered his coat and hat. Then he snuck out the door as quietly as he could, and he prayed Mary would be safe until Lizzie got back.
THE TRIBUNE NEWSROOM WAS GETTING MORE CHAOTIC BY THE MINUTE. Sam Medill had taken charge, since his brother Joseph was nowhere to be seen. Sam was mapping out the paper’s coverage and sending out clerks to rouse reporters from their beds. George Upton was rushing to his office, and G.P. English was writing copy as quickly as he could. A steady stream of people came in and out of the building, giving updated reports on the blaze. By that point the front was only five blocks away, which was much too close for comfort.
“What must I do?” Simon asked.
“Oh good,” Sam replied, “you’ve arrived. I need someone to go to the roof to watch for falling embers.”
“I will do that,” Lillian said before Simon had a chance to reply.
Sam looked at her for a moment, then looked back at Simon. “All right,” he said. “Do you know how to get there?”
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