1871

by Peter J Spalding

  THE DOOR TO THE FILE ROOM FINALLY BURST OPEN, sending smoke and flame blasting through the corridor. Papers and pencils flew into the vortex. Dozens of people dropped their buckets and fled; Thomas Grosvenor could feel the floor shaking underfoot. The smoke made it almost impossible to see, and Grosvenor’s chest burned every time he tried to inhale. He dropped to his knees, got below the smoke, and scurried away as quickly as he could. Behind him, the fire tossed the buckets across the halls.

  Grosvenor and his men reached the central atrium and ran out the front door. No one looked back, and no one broke step. The only thing the men wanted was to get out of the building. For all they cared, the fire could now feast on whatever it wanted.

  THE PEOPLE IN COURTHOUSE SQUARE STILL STOOD HUDDLED TOGETHER, practically oblivious to the dangers at hand. They stared up at the cupola, where the giant bell was still tolling.

  Inside the tower, the flames had spread considerably, and they were now licking around the new clock. As Simon climbed the stairs, he saw dozens of red-hot gears clanging and thumping in sequence. A narrow doorway was propped open to form a pathway to the roof.

  Simon crept through the doorway and stepped outside. Above him, Dennis Deneen was still on the balcony, trying to contain the fire as best he could. Little tidbits of flame were blowing laterally through the air. Simon swallowed hard; having spent so much time indoors, he was surprised to see how hellish things had gotten outside.

  With a loud ka-chunk, the clock’s minute hand moved within inches of his head. It was now a quarter till two in the morning.

  Simon jumped forward and started waving his arms. “Everyone!” he yelled, hoping to make himself heard over the din. “There is nothing left to do. You must evacuate quickly.”

  One man stared at him in frustration, then threw his pickax across the roof. As if in response, a groan came from below, and the roof shuddered underfoot. Some of the employees didn’t seem to react; at first Simon thought they hadn’t heard him, but then they started to put down their things. One by one, the employees abandoned their posts and started heading toward the cupola. Everyone was calm and orderly. As Simon held the door open, the workers squeezed inside and walked briskly down the stairs.

  Then, as Simon watched, the southeast corner of the roof began to convulse. His heart pounded, but he didn’t say anything. No one else seemed to have seen it. As the last person went past, Simon ducked into the door, pulled it shut behind him, and followed everyone down the half-burning stairs.

  DOWN BELOW, the crowd saw the fire spreading through the windows. A cry of alarm went up, and people immediately started to disperse. Mothers gathered up their children and headed toward the North Side. The homeless grabbed their possessions, while the businessmen whipped the reins of their horses.

  Randolph Street was clogged in both directions as the mob tried to escape. The crowd’s quiet stoicism was giving way to mass chaos. The last denizens of Conley’s Patch were still fleeing through the square, and Williams’s fire engines were stretched far too thin to provide any protection. Captain Hickey knew he couldn’t keep any semblance of order, so he gave up his efforts and ran back toward the building.

  Robert Lincoln rushed up Clark Street on the way to his office. He struggled to control his horse; he guided it toward the right and led it onto the curb, where hundreds of pedestrians were running away. Joseph Medill was racing in the opposite direction, toward his office at the Tribune. Robert met the publisher’s eyes for a moment, but Medill barely acknowledged him, and then Medill vanished into the throng.

  General Sheridan, meanwhile, was trying to reach his headquarters. He had just been called from his home, and he had sped downtown as quickly as he could. His division’s main building was on Washington Street, just across from the Courthouse, and a barrier of smoke and flame kept him from getting near it.

  “Goddamn it!” Sheridan yelled as his trademark temper started to boil. “The blasted, cussed, godforsaken—”

  “General!” yelled a soldier as he ran through the crowd.

  “Get away from here!” Sheridan yelled. “Do you not know of the explosives? They’ll tear this block to bits—”

  “Sir,” the soldier replied, “you needn’t worry about them. The powder has been moved.”

  Sheridan frowned. He hadn’t been told of Hildreth’s plan. “What in the blazes do you mean?” he asked.

  THE MUFFLED SCREAMS FILTERED THROUGH THE COURTHOUSE WALLS, and they mixed together with the thumps and groans of the building itself. “Mary, mother of God,” Mason said as he stared out the southern windows. “How the devil could this happen?”

  Captain Hickey ran past him, but Mason barely reacted. He was mesmerized by the spectacle outside. All hell was breaking loose; people were running in every which way, dodging debris and slapping out sparks on their clothes. Mason watched everything with an almost catatonic detachment. The orange spots of light reflected in his eyes, and he bit his lip as the trees lining the street began to burn.

  Mason had never imagined that things could go so catastrophically wrong. He was one of the people who had helped build the city. He thought of the engineering feats that had lifted Chicago from the bog, and he thought of all the industry and capital that had made the city what it was. This is America, Mason said to himself— things simply weren’t supposed to transpire this way.

  Mason started to feel that the situation was hopeless. He wondered what the death toll would be, but even that seemed trivial. He assumed that he would be blamed for the fire, which meant he would have to leave in disgrace. In any case, he knew that running for mayor had been a dreadful mistake.

  As he watched the scene unfold, Mason simply gave up. His home was outside the path of the fire, so he thought he might as well go home. He knew he would be criticized, and that people would see him as a coward. But at that point, Mason didn’t care. Things would turn out the same way whether he did anything or not.

  Finally, with a grunt, he moved away from the window and headed downstairs.

  MATHIAS SCHAEFER CALLED UP THE BALCONY STAIRS and yelled for Deneen to run for his life. Upstairs, Deneen jumped through the door and scrambled down the steps as fast as his legs would allow. Above him, the bell was still swinging wildly on its automatic mechanism. The gears of the clock groaned in agony.

  A blast of hot air came up, followed by a deluge of sparks. Deneen moved past the balcony fire and descended to the fourth floor, where he expected the danger to subside. But then he saw that a second fire had broken through a wall, and it was now sweeping into the cupola. As Deneen came around a bend, he began to see more tongues of flame mixed in with heat ripples. The spiral stairs were acting as a funnel, causing the flames to twist around like a corkscrew.

  Deneen knew that he had to move quickly, so he did the only thing that came to his mind. He jumped onto the railing and braced himself against the wall with one hand. He slid down the banister, and the walls rushed by in a dizzying swirl. He had to close his eyes to keep from getting sick.

  The blaze lashed out at him, and he felt his skin sizzle. A sharp pain shot through his hand. For a brief moment, Deneen felt as though his whole body was burning. He shut his eyelids even more tightly, and he tried to ignore the crackling hissing sounds around him.

  Suddenly the railing buckled under his weight, and Deneen was thrown off. He scrambled forward in confusion. As he regained his senses, he saw that he was within view of the building’s main entrance. Schaefer grabbed Deneen’s unburned hand as the plaster fell from the ceiling. Schaefer and Deneen both ran for the door; then they burst outside and sprinted away from the building.

  WITH A ROAR, the fire burst through the top of the dome. Flames snapped at the still-tolling bell like dogs barking up a tree. The bell responded with a defiant but increasingly panicky dong-dong-dong. The last remaining holdouts were in the building’s nether regions, which were a bit safer but not much.

  Captain Hickey ran back down the stairs. “Longley, you had better le
t them out,” Hickey said.

  Longley still wasn’t convinced. “I hate to take the responsibility,” he said.

  “I will take the responsibility,” Hickey shot back.

  Longley peered over his shoulder, then finally let Hickey into the jail. Hickey ran down the corridor and took control of the most dangerous men. The building shuddered as a portion of roof fell in; then the men heard a roar as a set of support beams gave way.

  A man rushed down the stairs with a written order from the mayor: “Release all prisoners from jail at once,” it read, “keeping them in custody if possible.”

  Longley turned to Hickey. “What will you do?” he asked.

  “I have got seven or eight men with me,” Hickey said. “Take the murderers and get them over to the North Side.”

  “What will we do with the rest of them?” Longley asked.

  Hickey threw up his hands. “You can’t take them now!” he yelled. “Release them!”

  The officers jumped for their keys, threw them into the locks, and twisted them around. The prisoners ripped open the doors and surged into the corridor. The men struggled to stand as hundreds of inmates pushed and shoved their way past; it was almost impossible to breathe, and the force of the mob threw their bodies to the side. All semblance of order was lost in a mad dash to the stairs, which were much too narrow to admit that many people at once. The shouting and screaming drowned out all other sounds.

  Farragut roared as he lunged forward; another man struck him from the side, and Farragut’s face slammed into the cell bars. Farragut swore, grabbed the other man, and threw him against the wall. Then he turned around and raced out of the building.

  A STEADY STREAM OF INMATES POURED OUT OF THE COURTHOUSE and spread out over the square. Some of the men started breaking store windows and looting all they could find, but most simply ran for their lives. The officers followed closely on their heels; they dragged the murderers along, moving as quickly as the leg irons allowed.

  The building behind them was in its final throes. It burned like a huge torch, with flames leaping into the sky. The hinges holding the bell were now weakening in the heat. Flames lashed out and made the metal glow red. Then, with a lurch, the hinges suddenly gave way, and the giant iron tocsin broke loose. The pealing stopped, and the bell swung downward, smashing into the stairwell with nearly eight tons of force. The beams were collapsing in sequence, one giving way after another. A cacophony of ear-shattering noises blasted outward. With ungodly speed, the bell pummeled toward the ground, bucking back and forth as it crashed through five floors. Finally, in one giant heave, the bell slammed into the basement floor and landed upside-down in a crater.

  Simon was untying his horse when he looked back one last time. He watched as the cupola swayed from side to side, then sank behind the façade. Then, with a groan, the whole Courthouse gave way. One by one, the floors pancaked on top of one another. A giant cloud of debris blew out in all directions, and only the building’s outer façade remained standing.

  Chapter Fifteen: The Battle of Armageddon

  “The flames raged and roared with the unchained malice of a million fiends. Nothing human could stand before or check these combined elements of annihilation. They defied man’s greatest efforts, and appeared to be kindled by the arch-demon himself.”

  — Chicago Evening Post

  JOHN CHAPIN FELT HIS ROOM SHUDDER AS HE WOKE FROM HIS SLEEP. Chapin squinted; he could hear people running down the hall, and he could make out someone yelling, but he didn’t understand what it was all about. Light was coming in through the window, and at first he assumed it was the sunrise. But Chapin was still very tired, and he didn’t think it could be morning quite yet.

  Then he heard a dull roar from outside. He thought it was just a wagon on the Nicholson pavement, but then he heard more voices. Chapin wondered what on Earth was going on. He tried to fall back asleep, but he found himself getting restless. He couldn’t seem to shake an ineffable dread. He wanted to reassure himself, to prove that he was worrying unnecessarily. Chapin rose from his bed and headed for the window.

  Something shattered against his wall, and he jumped with surprise. He looked around for a moment, then took a deep breath and threw open the blinds.

  Within a split second, all thoughts of sleep disappeared.

  He could see nothing but flames that extended to the horizon. Orange and black cinders churned like snow in a blizzard. The wind whipped at his face, stinging his cheeks and burning his skin. To his left, a building crumbled in an explosion of sparks.

  Without wasting a second, Chapin grabbed his suitcase and threw in his drawing supplies. His hands were slippery with sweat; his sketchbook nearly slipped out of his grasp, but he caught it and tossed it in. He had his hand on the doorknob when he remembered having left his watch under the pillow. He ran back, tossed the pillow off the bed, and grabbed the watch. Then he picked up a few charcoal pencils and was off.

  In the hallways and lobby, people ran in every direction, carrying everything from suitcases to armoires, spilling valuable contents all over the floor. Chapin ran for the exit, feeling old heirlooms and expensive china pieces crumble under his shoes. He wanted to get his coat, but he knew he didn’t have time. He ran outside and leaped down the front steps.

  A churning mass of humanity was swarming down the street, full of panicked women and screaming men. It was impossible to resist the flow of people; Chapin kept going as quickly as he could. The crowd was so frantic that he feared being trampled. Men were dropping suitcases out of windows in an attempt to save their things, so Chapin had to dodge the falling items. A massive gust caught another man and swept him off his feet; the man crashed into a streetlamp, and both he and the lamp crumpled to the ground.

  A swarm of sparks descended onto the street and seared several horses. The animals galloped through the mob, kicking people in the face and slamming them into buildings. Not far away, a bride ran as quickly as her wedding dress would allow, and she struggled to hold onto her still-wrapped presents. A jeweler stood in his doorway, handing out free diamonds. Roofing tore away in sheets and crumbled in mid-air, and windows shattered in the heat, raining debris on the melee below. An older woman kneeled in the street, holding a brass crucifix up to the sky, reciting lines from memory:

  Qui vid' i' gente più ch'altrove troppa

  e d'una parte e d'altra, con grand' urli,

  voltando pesi per forza di poppa.

  Percotëansi 'ncontro; e poscia pur lì

  si rivolgea ciascun, voltando a retro,

  gridando: "Perché tieni?" e "Perché burli?"

  And then, as the fire approached, the woman clasped her hands and begged for mercy.

  One block further north, a wagon raced around the corner so quickly that some of its contents fell over. A piano crashed to the ground and lay crumpled in the street. A bum jumped onto the piano and screamed in a drunken rage.

  “This fire is the friend o’the poor man!” he yelled. “Capital is falling, an’ anarchy will rise! There ain’t nuthin’ to be afraid of, it’s all up fer the takin’, and there ain’t no one gonna stop—” And then a well-aimed whiskey bottle stopped the man in mid-sentence. He toppled off the piano as the glass shattered in his face, and he fell in a pool of blood.

  The Washington Street Tunnel echoed with thousands of screams as the mob was funneled under the river. People held their suitcases over their heads and tried to push their way forward. Chapin’s eyes darted right and left as he searched for a way out of the crowd.

  He burst out of the tunnel with shocking speed, but the onward flow of people did not stop. Chapin turned and ran along the riverbank, away from the main force of the crowd. To his right, an oil slick was on fire, setting the surface of the water ablaze. Hundreds of rats scampered out from under the sidewalks, only to be trampled into shapeless pulp. A mother cat carried her kitten through the melee. Dogs ran around in circles, separated from their masters and lost in the din. Birds were burned in mid-
air, and they screamed and squawked as they fell to the ground.

  Chapin saw Dyer try to take a picture, but then a passerby ran past, knocking over the tripod and splitting open the camera. The glass plates shattered on impact. A spark hit the camera, and immediately the smell of burning chemicals filled the air. Dyer yelled a slew of obscenities, then abandoned his equipment and fled as fast as the crowd would allow.

  Chapin just stared. The sights were enough to convince him that the city was doomed. His body was dripping with sweat, but when the gusts hit him, he felt a chill across his skin. He didn’t dare stay there; he knew he had to keep moving.

  Chapin clutched his suitcase, shielded it as best he could, and headed north.

  THE TRIBUNE BUILDING SHUDDERED AS A NEARBY COLUMN OF FLAME WHIPPED THE SKY. Simon entered the city room and caught his breath as best he could. He had just finished putting his horse in the stables, and now he was preparing to get back to work. The office was as quiet as he had ever seen it; there were no murmurs of conversation, not even the squeaks of chairs as they scooted across the floor. And yet all of the employees had their noses to the grindstone. G.P. English had come down from the roof and was writing as feverishly as ever, while the compositors set the pages. The pressmen were ready to start printing as soon as the forms were sent down. Simon heard muffled footsteps overhead as Lillian and the others worked to water down the building. Joseph Medill had now taken command, but in contrast to his brother, he wasn’t barking orders at all. He simply sat at his desk, editing seven columns of copy.

  Simon took a deep breath. He reminded himself that no matter how dire things were, he still had a job to do. He had to marvel at Medill’s spirit in particular, since Medill had as much at stake as anyone else in the city. Medill wasn’t as big of a braggart as Deacon Bross, perhaps, but he had always been devoted to his adopted hometown. He had hobnobbed with Presidents for years, and he had guided untold amounts of capital into the city. And his impact on the Tribune could not be overstated; when he first arrived at the paper, it was such a rough-and-tumble outfit that a reader had just challenged its city editor to a duel. Since then, Medill had built the paper into a respectable and powerful outfit.