1871

by Peter J Spalding

  With a grim nod, Simon walked past a police patrol and headed toward the West Wing.

  MAYOR MASON WAS JUST COMING BACK FROM THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE, where he had asked the operator to call for more help. Mason had sent for General Sheridan and asked for military support; he had also telegraphed President Grant to inform him of the disaster and ask for federal assistance. Other cities were already sending equipment: Cincinnati and Pittsburgh were each sending three engines, and Springfield, Aurora, and Bloomington were sending one engine apiece. In Milwaukee, three additional engines were being loaded onto trains at that moment; the trains had open rights-of-way, and the towers had all been alerted to give them emergency track switching. Mason estimated that all of the equipment should arrive within hours.

  Simon was unimpressed. “With all due respect, sir, we don’t have hours to spare,” he said.

  “What else, then, shall I do?” Mason asked as he headed to the office of the Police and Fire Commissioners.

  Simon didn’t want to argue, but he was all too aware that the city had no emergency plans. There were no evacuation routes, or procedures, or anything else that could help them through a disaster. He was about to say something when they reached the commissioners’ office and ran into James Hildreth.

  “Mayor, sir, I’ve been looking for you,” Hildreth said.

  “What do you need?” Mason asked.

  “We must take a new course to stop the progress of the blaze,” he replied. Hildreth still liked his idea of blowing up buildings, so he pitched his plan with all the fervor he could muster. The city had a stockpile of explosives left over from the war, and Hildreth proposed that they be put to use.

  Simon gritted his teeth. “I doubt if that is such a good idea,” he said.

  “Who are you?” Hildreth asked. “And what makes you presume you know more of firefighting than I?”

  “I presume nothing,” Simon replied. “But if it were to be done, it should be coordinated with Marshal Williams.”

  Hildreth turned to the mayor. “Sir,” he said, “you must write me an order, I implore you.”

  Mason looked at Simon, then looked at Hildreth, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I can devote no manpower or any other city resource to the effort. But if you wish to take control of the gunpowder, then find Judge Miller and I shall write you that order.”

  Hildreth didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but he nodded. “Thank you sir,” he said, then hurried away.

  Mason turned to Simon. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But Mister Hildreth carries considerable clout at this moment.”

  “How is that?” Simon asked. “This is no time for politics. Has Mister Hildreth any credentials? Has he any training or experience of note?”

  Mason blinked. “I... well... I have never been made aware of that.”

  “Bloody hell,” Simon replied as he felt steam billow from his ears.

  “We must pursue every option— wouldn’t you agree?” Mason asked.

  “If you wish to take that step, then that’s your prerogative,” Simon shot back. “But you must give that responsibility to someone who understands such affairs. What prevents Sheridan from doing the job?”

  “I am operating in my best capacity,” Mason said. “With all due respect, Mister Caldwell, I believe that this fire is making you overreact.”

  Simon snorted. “Overreact?” he snapped. “That’s preposterous. It is not even possible to overreact at a time such as this. Why do you suppose there are so many waiting outside— they’re not there to stroll through the grass, or sit on the benches, or do anything of the sort. They are there because they need to see you take control. And yet, instead of doing that, you are handing over control to an inexperienced hack because you’re not willing to say no!”

  Mason opened his mouth, but Simon didn’t want to hear it. He stormed out of the room and marched off down the hall.

  As he fumed, Simon tried to fathom what Mason was after. He couldn’t believe that the mayor was still thinking about petty local intrigue. Then again, Simon knew that he shouldn’t be surprised; and the more he considered the matter, the more he thought it wasn’t worth it to fight. Even in expert hands, explosives couldn’t possibly stop the blaze. They might demolish a few buildings, but in the end they would make little difference.

  Simon knew he had to take matters into his own hands. He wanted to be like Lillian; as self-righteous as she was, she always seemed ready to handle a crisis. Simon looked around and tried to gauge the situation, and he tried to guess what Lillian would do.

  IT HAD BEEN BARELY FOUR HOURS SINCE MATHIAS SCHAEFER FIRST SIGHTED THE BLAZE, but now it filled the southwestern sky. Schaefer had gone off duty, and Dennis Deneen had come up to replace him. But Schaefer couldn’t bring himself to abandon his post.

  The bell was clanging as loudly as ever, and the flaming cinders were getting perilously close. For the past hour, a steady stream of gawkers had been coming upstairs for the view. At first Schaefer and Deneen didn’t mind, but when the tourists became a distraction, the watchmen had drafted them to help protect the building. Men and women were now swarming across the roof, equipped with buckets and blankets.

  Schaefer and Deneen could easily plot the fire’s progress, and they were appalled at what they saw. From up there, the buildings looked like toys. The residents of Conley’s Patch were swarming around like ants, and the Chamber of Commerce building was silhouetted by the orange demon behind it. Marshal Williams had assembled a line of defense along Madison Street: the Economy, the Long John, the Coventry, and the Brown had all taken their positions and were spraying down buildings. But compared to the fire, the engines seemed puny.

  Schaefer and Deneen knew how vulnerable the Courthouse would be. As large as it was, the square left it unshielded from the flames. And like most of Chicago’s structures, the Courthouse was built almost wholly out of wood; the only part made of stone was the outer façade.

  “I’m going downstairs to see what’s happening,” Schaefer said. “Will you be all right?”

  “No, but you may go,” Deneen replied.

  Schaefer headed down the stairs just as a piece of debris crashed onto the roof. A woman jumped forward, armed with a wet blanket, and smothered the fire. Then a gust of wind came up, and more cinders rained down. One by one, the little fires were extinguished. People were moving faster than they thought they could, but as the onslaught continued, they began to get overwhelmed. A man called out for help, but no one answered, because the others were busy fighting fires of their own.

  And then, just moments after Schaefer disappeared, a burning timber came flying from the southwest. It barely missed the balcony and shattered the limestone wall, igniting the cupola’s insides.

  SIMON STUMBLED DOWN THE COURTHOUSE BASEMENT STAIRS. The Cook County Jail was underneath the East Wing; its main entrance was locked, but Simon could see through the bars to the prison area beyond. The basement was musty and dark, and its brick walls were sweating with moisture. The prisoners seemed unaware of the holocaust outside.

  Simon called out to Deputy Sheriff Edward Longley. “We must get them out,” Simon told him.

  “Who are you?” Longley asked.

  “I’m on orders from the mayor,” Simon lied. “The fire is a mere few blocks away.”

  Longley was about to request identification when a prisoner chirped up. “Fire?” he asked. “What fire?”

  Simon swallowed hard. The prisoner was an older man, pencil-thin and dressed only in rags. Simon looked back at Longley.

  “You didn’t notify them of the fire?” Simon asked.

  Longley shrugged. “Why should I?”

  “Where?” the prisoner asked. “I ain’t heard about a fire. Why didn’t you roust us out—”

  As he spoke, other prisoners began to wake up. “Are you gonna leave us here?” another asked.

  Longley put up his hands. “No,” he said, “we’re not going to leave you—”

  “Let up on
this cussed nonsense!” Garland Farragut yelled. “I’ll bet the buildin’s on fire, that’s what it is! I know it, I just know it!”

  “Now wait—”

  “It’s a lie! They ain’t done nuthin’! They done tole you a lie—”

  Simon looked at Longley, then turned to the panicked prisoners. “Please,” he said, “try to stay calm.”

  “Let me out! Right quick!”

  Simon raised his voice. “Listen to me,” he said.

  “You can’t keep us locked in here like animals—”

  “Listen,” he said again, but there was still no response. “Listen!”

  Finally the prisoners quieted down.

  “Please, everyone try to stay calm,” Simon told them. He tried to sound soothing, but he could hear the frustration in his voice. “At this point you are in no danger.” More pandemonium flared up. Simon held up his hand for silence, then waited until the shouts died down. “If and when the Courthouse is threatened, you will all be led to safety, I’m sure.” He glanced over at Longley. “You needn’t be afraid—”

  “How do ya know that?” Farragut said. “You think you’re a good deal of a big-bug, but I bet ya don’t know a damned thing, an’ you’re just sayin’ that to keep us all quiet—”

  Simon swallowed hard. He knew that if the prisoners were freed now, then pandemonium would ensue. As noble as his intentions had been, Simon had to admit that he’d made a mistake. Longley glared.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon mumbled, but there was nothing he could do. He could hear commotion in other parts of the building. Simon knew his help was needed elsewhere, so he ran up the stairs while Longley and the prisoners yelled at him from below.

  AS SIMON RETURNED TO THE GROUND FLOOR, he heard the building heave and creak above him. He tried to gauge how much time he had left.

  Simon knew that the building housed all city and county records, which meant that the title to his house was in danger. He tried to tell himself that it was just a piece of paper, and that losing the title would not mean losing his house. But then he remembered Dyer digging through those records. Simon bit his lip as his heart began to pound.

  Unfortunately, all of those records were in the southern part of the East Wing, which was directly exposed to the blaze. Simon started to panic when he saw smoke in the hall. He knew right away that his fears had been realized.

  When Simon reached the hallway’s end, he found a door barricaded with a heavy wooden desk. A few desk drawers had slid open, spilling pens and pencils onto the floor. Smoke poured out of the cracks in the doorframe, and the hinges rattled and shook under pressure, but the door seemed to hold. Scattered volunteers were in the adjacent rooms.

  Simon ran up to the door. “Help me move this,” he said.

  Prosecutor Thomas Grosvenor rushed out of an adjacent room. “We cannot move anything,” Grosvenor said, “not anymore.”

  “Have you rescued what’s inside?”

  “I am afraid—”

  “Excuse me,” said a man as he arrived with a handful of buckets. “Where is the nearest faucet?”

  Simon pointed. “Down the hall and to the left,” he said.

  The man nodded and rushed away. Simon looked down and saw puddles of water pooling under his shoes.

  “I’m sorry,” Grosvenor was saying, “but the best we could do was to stop the fire from spreading.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon yelled. “What on Earth— do you realize what will happen?”

  “I cannot do anything for that,” Grosvenor replied. “Now if you please stand aside.”

  “I need a wet cloth,” someone said, and a dripping towel appeared out of nowhere and was wrapped around the doorknob. The knob was starting to glow red with the heat.

  Simon looked to his right. The wall was starting to turn brown like a smoldering piece of paper. Slowly but surely, the flames were breaking through.

  “Damn it!” Simon yelled. Then, without another word, he ran back down the hallway in search of the mayor.

  THE FIRST WAFTS OF SMOKE DRIFTED INTO THE BASEMENT, and they did not go unnoticed by the prisoners inside. As the wispy clouds floated through the gates, the inmates started screaming and yelling at the guards.

  “Ya bastards gotta let us out of here right now!” Farragut yelled.

  “We’re bloody on fire!” another said.

  “Stay calm,” Longley said. “Everything is under control.”

  “The hell it is!”

  “Ya can’t keep us down here forever!” another prisoner yelled.

  Several North Division police officers walked down the central corridor. “That’s enough,” said Deputy Sheriff George Hutchinson. “Everyone shall be fine. There’s no reason to panic.”

  “Horseshit!” a man replied. “That’s what th’other fella said, an’ he ran out of here like a bloody little coward!”

  “The mayor is aware—”

  “Bloody hell!” The man thrashed at Longley, who fought back with a blow from his truncheon. The prisoner staggered backward and fell against the wall.

  Farragut jumped forward. “Goddammit, ya bastards, ya know what’s up there, ya gotta do somethin’, it ain’t gonna help us, come on—”

  As he yelled, traces of smoke came in through the vents. This new smoke was laden with carbon monoxide, and it bore the unmistakable smell of burning chemicals. Several tongues of poisonous gas wafted across the ceiling, then merged to form little clouds.

  But Farragut and Longley were too preoccupied to notice. Longley strode to Farragut’s cell, looked him in the eyes, and cocked his pistol. Farragut fell silent.

  “Another word out of you,” Longley said, “and you’ll be the first to go.” Above him, the smoke churned quietly, created an oppressive haze that hung in the air.

  “Who is here?” came a voice from the other end of the room.

  Longley broke his gaze with Farragut. “I am,” he said.

  Captain Michael Hickey was just outside the jail door. “You must release the prisoners,” Hickey said. “The Courthouse is on fire. It won’t be five minutes before this roof will go in.”

  “Nonsense,” Longley said as he unlocked the door and took a few steps up the stairs. Hickey followed him and pointed out the smoke in the East Wing.

  “I am speaking the truth,” Hickey said. “I fear we haven’t much time.”

  The officers heard yells in the distance. Longley turned his head and tried to figure out the source of the noise. “Goddamn it,” he said, “I cannot release prisoners amidst innocent people.”

  “But Deputy—”

  “That is my decision,” Longley said, “and I’m the one with authority here. I suggest you get those crowds under control.”

  THE MAYOR EXPECTED THE CENTRAL ALARM TELEGRAPH OFFICE TO BE CHAOTIC, but to his surprise, the office was empty. William Brown had sounded a total of five alarms that night— the last two of which were correct— before his supervisor relieved him of his duties. Now Brown had left the building, and no one had come to replace him. Alarms were still coming over the wires, but no one was dispatching any men to the scenes.

  “What in heaven’s name had happened here?” Mason snapped. “What’s the utility of this system if we cannot use it as intended?”

  Simon appeared in the doorway behind him. “Mister Mayor,” he said, “this is all done for. We must evacuate the building.”

  “No, I’m sure that’s unneeded,” Mason replied. “I have sent for more men and equipment—”

  “From where?” Simon asked. “What resources can you possibly call upon that haven’t already been called?”

  “I told you,” Mason said, “I am doing the best—”

  “No, you are wasting time. What do you hope to accomplish by standing in this office?”

  “I’m sure something can be done—”

  “There are three hundred people locked in the basement,” Simon snapped. “I suggest you tend to them first, unless you wish to be responsible for three hundred deat
hs.”

  Mason shook his head. “You know nothing of such matters,” he said.

  Simon listened to the building’s death throes. The wires kept giving off a bzzt-bzzt-bzzt. Finally Simon opted to take a different tack.

  “You know,” he said, “the mayoral election is coming.”

  “This is no time for politics,” Mason replied. “You have said so yourself.”

  “You don’t wish to affect the outcome of the race?”

  “Absolutely not,” Mason said. “I wish never to seek another term—”

  “Well then,” Simon replied, “do you wish to be denounced— and have your name sullied— by every candidate in the campaign?”

  “How dare you say—”

  “Oh, I am making no threat, for I have no power over such matters. I am simply telling you how things are. And I am asking you whether you wish to save your good name or not.”

  Mason chewed his lip for a moment. “I have spent my life as an honorable man.”

  Simon crossed his arms.

  “Very well,” Mason said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “You must bring those volunteers down from the roof. I don’t believe their services are needed any longer.” He stood motionless for a moment, then kicked a chair in frustration and stormed away.

  OUTSIDE THE TELEGRAPH ROOM, a corridor led to the center of the building. Simon ran through the corridor and tried to alert the last remaining holdouts. He found a sole clerk stuffing papers into a box. “The building’s on fire,” Simon told him. “Mason says to get out.”

  “Hell,” the clerk said. He grabbed his box and lifted it onto his shoulders. After a few steps, the bottom of the box split open, and papers went flying.

  Simon wanted to help the man, but he didn’t have time. He rushed to the spiral staircase that led to the balcony. Simon prayed he could reach the cupola before it was too late.