1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Now, in the hushed office building, Simon saw that Medill was still as powerful as ever. His red hair and beard had gone gray, but he was still physically fit, and he was as fiery and as outspoken as a man half his age. His jaw was clenched, and he still bore an intense perfervid look in his eyes. All the city leaders, even Medill’s most ruthless opponents, looked up to him. Medill had helped build Chicago in the same way he had helped build everything else in his life: he had grafted and molded it to his own specifications.

  And now all of that was literally going up in smoke.

  AT THE CORNER OF CLARK AND LAKE, the Law Office of Scammon, McCagg, and Fuller was beginning to smolder. Attorneys ran in and out of the building, trying to rescue all the records they could, while partner Samuel Fuller coordinated the effort.

  Robert strode down the hallways and entered his office. His desk was just the way he had left it, with contracts and deposition transcripts arranged in countless piles. Robert headed for the file cabinet, where the Insanity File lay hidden. He reached out to open the drawer—

  “Robert?” came a voice.

  Robert jumped back and turned to see Samuel Fuller behind him. “Yes?” Robert asked.

  “I need you to help gather papers from the vault,” Fuller said. “I do not know if the vault is fireproof, and I shan’t run the risk of finding out. I need you to get what you can and load it into my carriage. The more cases you can rescue, the better— but the insurance files have got to come first.”

  Robert nodded. He knew why Fuller was so intent on saving those records: because insurance would become the city’s lifeblood once the fire was out. Robert looked out his window and saw the inferno fast approaching. Then he turned, stepped away from his cabinet, and ran toward the vault.

  NEXT DOOR TO THE ANDRISTS, Deacon Bross was sprinting up to his house. He took the steps two at a time, then rushed inside without shutting the door behind him.

  Inside, Bross’s wife was corraling the family into packing their things. A maid scurried through the foyer with an armful of clothes.

  Bross looked around the room and rubbed his beard. “Please stop packing,” he finally told his wife. “The blaze is heading north. It’s not coming this way.”

  “But—”

  “I have seen the extent of the fire,” Bross continued, “and I am considerably reassured.”

  “Now darling—”

  “You must not argue,” he snapped. “I do not anticipate danger. I ask you to leave it off.” He lowered his head as he felt a brief pang of guilt. “The results of this night’s work will be awful. At least ten thousand people will want breakfast in the morning— you prepare for one hundred.”

  Mrs. Bross stared at him. Their daughter Jessie listened but didn’t say a word. Across the foyer, all of the servants stood at attention. “Yes Father,” Jessie finally mumbled.

  “Thank you,” Bross replied. He looked back outside, and he saw Archibald Andrist walking up from Congress Street. Andrist’s white hair had turned charcoal gray from the soot, and his clothing was stained and burned in multiple places.

  Bross’s bushy eyebrows scrunched into a frown. “Mister Andrist,” he said, “what’s happened to you?”

  Andrist didn’t respond. He trudged up his front steps and entered his house.

  “Are you all right?” Bross asked. “Sir?”

  But Andrist still didn’t answer. He just shut his door behind him. Bross tried to determine what was going through Andrist’s mind. He looked back at his daughter, and Bross was about to say something when his wife interrupted.

  “Darling,” said Mrs. Bross, “I’m afraid I’m still alarmed.”

  “You needn’t be,” Bross replied. “But I must go. I shall be at the Tribune.” And without another word, he headed back outside.

  The ladies exchanged glances. Then, as soon as Bross was out of view, they resumed with their packing.

  JOHN CHAPIN WAS HEADING NORTH ON CANAL STREET. He was practically in a daze; the fire had come upon him so quickly that he still didn’t know what to do. He was just west of the river, and the wind was blowing northward, so he assumed he was outside of the fire’s path— for the moment at least.

  From where he was standing, he had a grand view of the scene. The flames were just on the other side of the Randolph Street Bridge. Thousands of people were fleeing across the river; Chapin could hear the bridge groaning under the refugees’ weight. The guardrails heaved under the pressure, then burst, and a half-dozen men fell into the water. Another carriage tried to squeeze through to the West Side, but in a bundle of chaos it fell over the edge, landing in the water in a heap of wood, flesh, and horse hide. Several boats caught fire and tore away from their moorings; they drifted eerily around as their riggings crackled and flapped.

  Chapin was just about to flee when an irrational thought flashed through his mind. At first Chapin dismissed it, but the more he considered it, the more he began to think it made sense. He looked around for a moment, then found a spot of safety. Then he sat down, got out his drawing supplies, and began to sketch the blaze.

  AT THAT MOMENT, ROBERT’S HOME WAS UNUSUALLY QUIET. Lizzie Brown had made coffee to keep herself awake, but she found she didn’t need it. She stared out the dining room window and tried to gauge the distance to the fire. Her ears were on alert, listening for any sound from upstairs. But for the last few hours, Mary Lincoln hadn’t stirred.

  Lizzie thought of her husband, and she tried to imagine what he was doing. The Browns’ home was well outside the fire’s path, as was her husband’s church, so Lizzie tried to tell herself she had no reason to worry. She wanted to notify her husband that she was all right, but she couldn’t think of a good way to do it. Lizzie hoped that Robert would come home quickly, since she was anxious to head home herself.

  Lizzie heard a cry from above, and she immediately hurried upstairs. She found that Mary was still sleeping, but the light from outside was shining into her eyes, and she appeared to be dreaming. Lizzie knew Mary wouldn’t stay asleep for too long. Lizzie closed and locked the shutters, and most of the light disappeared. With any luck, Lizzie thought, Mary wouldn’t learn of the fire for at least a few more hours.

  Lizzie pulled up a chair, tried to make herself comfortable, and waited.

  DEACON BROSS HAD JUST ARRIVED AT THE TRIBUNE and was now emerging onto the roof. Simon and a handful of others were following close behind. They found Lillian still at her post, tending to her duties as devotedly as ever. She was sweating profusely, and her hands were caked with grime, but she didn’t seem to care.

  Simon walked up to Colbert’s telescope. The fire stretched from the southwestern horizon to the northeast, occupying a full hundred eighty degrees of view. The flames were flowing past from left to right, but they weren’t encroaching on the building. Down below, Simon saw thousands of people and wagons of all kinds. A lurid orange light illuminated the city, and Simon couldn’t help thinking that the Battle of Armageddon was at hand.

  Elias Colbert got up. “Here,” he said to Simon. “Pray look at what we’ve wrought.”

  Simon sat in Colbert’s chair and peered through the eyepiece. The telescope was facing southwest, so he could see the river’s South Branch reflecting the writhing flames behind it. The O’Learys’ neighborhood had vanished into the blaze.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Colbert asked. “That is, in an odd sort of way.”

  Simon blinked a few times, then nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “It most certainly is.”

  “Simon,” Lillian said as she appeared at his side, “thank heavens you’ve returned. I must know what has happened.”

  He sighed. “We just sent for our first proofs. Now we must wait and let the printers do their jobs.”

  “Have you found anything about my fathe’?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “Should I have?”

  Lillian looked around. “Miste’ Bross!” she called as she strode in his direction. “Sir, have you seen any sign of my fat
he’?”

  Bross turned. “Miss Andrist?” he said. “What are you doing here?” But then he looked at Simon, and he made the connection. “You mean to say—”

  “You must tell me what you know,” Lillian said. “Have you come from home? Do you know if he is there?”

  “He is,” Bross replied, “and as far as I know, he is safe.”

  Lillian felt the relief seem to wash over her body. She had almost been afraid to learn the truth before, but now she wanted to know everything. “Oh thank God,” she said. “What is he doing? And where has he been? You must tell me, Miste’ Bross—”

  “You must calm yourself down,” Bross replied. “I know almost nothing aside from what I just said.”

  “B-but you must unde’stand, I must know this right away—”

  “Miss Andrist, are you all right?” Bross asked.

  Lillian’s face stiffened. “I most decidedly am,” she replied. “Why would you even ask me that?”

  Simon began to lead Lillian away. “All right,” he said, “there’s no need to get emotional.”

  “Emotional?” Lillian snapped. “I’m speaking of my father. How dare anyone be so callous and so cruel?”

  “I’ve no need for theatrics,” Simon shot back, “and neither has Bross nor Medill nor anyone else in this building.”

  “Simon—”

  “I mean it,” he said. “Do you assume that the rest of us are not grappling with our feelings? Naturally we are. You must follow our lead and keep your outbursts to yourself.”

  Lillian paused for a moment, then wiped a tear from her eye. “You don’t unde’stand,” she finally said. “I’ve been fighting with him fo’ months, since the day I found out about that Milliman-Judd business. I’ve wanted to reconcile so badly, to get back the father I once knew, and now I’ve spent the last hours worried sick—”

  “Then for heaven’s sakes, stop blathering about it and do something,” Simon shot back. “Do you not think I’m worried about Tommy? I would give anything to race across the city to ensure he is safe. But I cannot do such a thing with the fire blocking my way.”

  Lillian pursed her lips. “You shouldn’t have stayed in this area—”

  “I never claimed to be proud of it,” he snapped. “I, well, I wish I had gone home hours ago when I still had the chance.” He paused. “But how was I to know that then? And what am I to do about it now?”

  Lillian swallowed. “If something happens to him—”

  “Please don’t finish your sentence,” he said. “I’ve already had enough regrets for one night.”

  Lillian didn’t reply, and she couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes. She just turned and walked away, toward the eastern side of the building.

  Colbert cleared his throat. “She’s quite a hard case, isn’t she?”

  Simon closed his eyes and leaned back against a chimney. He stood motionless for a moment, then slid slowly down the chimney’s brick face, until he came to rest on the gritty roof shingles.

  AT THAT MOMENT, TOMMY WAS LYING CURLED UP ON THE COUCH. He knew that Simon would never have allowed him to put his feet on the furniture; but since he was home alone, Tommy felt he could do what he wanted. He lay buried under a pile of pillows, and he pretended to take shelter in an exotic locale.

  Tommy heard someone knocking on the door, and his game of make-believe ended quickly. He jumped up from the couch and tried to throw the pillows into place. He stood at attention and put on his best smile, hoping that no one would ask why he was up in the middle of the night.

  The knocking stopped, and Tommy heard footsteps running across the yard. He peered out the window and saw people swarming down the street. They were knocking on all the doors, but Tommy didn’t understand why. He frowned and looked around the dark quiet house. The silver candlesticks sat undisturbed on the mantle. Simon’s bookshelves stood quietly along the wall. Everything looked as it usually did, but Tommy could tell that something was amiss. His giddiness started to fade, replaced by an anxiety he had never felt before.

  “Simon?” Tommy asked, although he didn’t expect a response. “Where you gone?”

  At first, Tommy considered going out to ask for help. But then he remembered that he shouldn’t talk to strangers. Tommy knew better than to break the rules, so he stayed inside with the door safely locked.

  Tommy sat down and clutched a pillow against his chest. His eyelids seemed to droop, but he told himself he wasn’t tired. He forced his eyes wide open, but then his head began to sway. His eyelids drooped a second time; then Tommy slumped against the couch, and he fell asleep sprawled across the cushions.

  A SOLDIER RAN UP WABASH AVENUE, where James Hildreth was working with his explosives. “Sir!” he yelled over the sounds of the crowds. “Sir, we need this gunpowder.”

  Hildreth was in the middle of a talk with his men. He turned around with a testy look on his face. “What?” he asked.

  “General Sheridan needs your explosives,” the man said.

  “Does he,” Hildreth said with his voice dripping in sarcasm.

  “Yes sir, he’s attempting to create a firebreak, and you have the only supplies in the city.”

  “Is that so?” Hildreth said. “Then you may tell your general that I intend to keep them.”

  “Our unit is fully trained, sir, and we all have much experience in using explosives. With all due respect, we shall do it much more efficiently than will your civilian groups.”

  “Well, I was given this authority by the mayor, and I am not about to step down,” Hildreth said.

  “But—”

  “Tell your general that I am using my civilian prerogatives, and I say no!” Hildreth yelled, which made the soldier jump backward.

  “Yes sir,” the soldier replied as he scrambled off.

  Hildreth turned to his assistant Cornelius Mahoney. “Cornelius, I place you in charge of all these,” he said as he pointed toward the kegs. “Do not let anyone near them.”

  JOHN CHAPIN’S PENCIL FLEW ACROSS HIS PAPER AS HIS DRAWING TOOK SHAPE. Hordes were still running past him, but he found himself shutting out the chaos. In fact, he felt detached and serene. A little girl searched for her mother but clearly had no idea where she was. A drunk staggered through the melee; Chapin knew that the man had likely lost everything and had nowhere to go.

  It was a surreal experience, Chapin thought to himself. He had an ideal view of the riverfront and the burning downtown. Ships were fleeing toward the safety of the lake, and the bridge tender had no choice but to let the vessels past. The drawbridge swung open, stranding hundreds of people. The refugees couldn’t move forward and couldn’t move back, so they screamed and yelled at the bridge tender until the boats were through, and the bridge moved back to its original position. Then the chaos resumed.

  The scariest part of the experience, Chapin thought, was the noise. The wind wailed as it blew northward, and he could distinctly hear the heaving and quaking of buildings as they collapsed. Somewhere deep in the city, something exploded. The sounds repeated themselves and echoed through the streets, creating a rattling like heavy artillery. The cries of the people blended together to create a monotonous din. Chapin could barely hear himself think.

  He began to realize that his drawing was quite good. It was unlike anything he’d ever drawn before— or had ever expected to draw, for that matter. Chapin knew that the fire would make headlines worldwide, but even then, he couldn’t have guessed that the sketch would become iconic. It would be one of the most iconic images, in fact, that Harper’s had ever printed. And it would help define his entire career.

  MARY CRACKED HER EYES OPEN; then she jumped with surprise when she saw Lizzie beside her. Mary let out a shriek, while Lizzie jumped forward and tried to keep her gaze away from the window.

  “Mary,” Lizzie said, “it’s all right. It’s just me.”

  Mary’s eyes darted around. She was trying to figure out why Lizzie was there in the middle of the night.

  “A
re you hungry?” Lizzie asked. “Shall I make you something to eat?”

  “What— what—”

  “Don’t be frightened,” Lizzie said. “Everything is all right. Come, let me take you downstairs.”

  Mary frowned. Lizzie’s reassurances weren’t fooling her at all. She knew something was going on, and she was trying to figure out what it might be. Her first thought was that something had happened to Robert, but before she could panic, Lizzie put a calming hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Lizzie said. “There isn’t any danger.”

  “Danger?” Mary asked. “Danger of what? My mind is unimpaired, Lizzie, and I cannot understand your painful enigmatic actions—”

  “Sh,” Lizzie said. “I shall explain it all later. Come downstairs with me, for there is something I wish for you to see.”

  Mary shot her a skeptical look. She couldn’t imagine what Lizzie could possibly want to show her. Mary suspected that Lizzie was bluffing, but exactly why, she didn’t know. Still, against her better judgment, Mary took Lizzie’s hand.

  “Easy now,” Lizzie said. “Now get up— watch your step—”

  “Where are you taking me?” Mary asked.

  “We are but going to the dining room,” Lizzie replied.

  “Are you taking me away?”

  “What?” Lizzie asked. “Taking you away? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What are you doing to me—”

  “Mary, I would never do anything to harm you. Now follow me.” Lizzie led her down the hallway and crept down the stairs. She didn’t know how close the fire was at that point, but she didn’t want to take chances. In staying downstairs, Lizzie and Mary would be able to flee quickly if needed— although Lizzie prayed it would never come to that.