“What is—”
Lizzie whipped her head around, and she saw Mary looking through a window. Lizzie immediately knew the jig was up.
Mary started screaming and running for the door, but Lizzie leapt after her, and she managed to lock the door before Mary pulled it open. Mary became hysterical and started yelling nonsense, so Lizzie clamped her arms around her body and put a hand over her mouth.
“Sh,” Lizzie said, “you are perfectly safe—”
Mary wrenched Lizzie’s hand away. “You are trying to kill me!” she yelled. “You want— you and Robert—”
“Robert and I want nothing less than your safety,” Lizzie said. “You needn’t be afraid, for I’m not leaving you here. We are in this together, for better or worse. Understand?”
FLETCHER BINGHAM TRUDGED UP DEARBORN STREET, carrying nothing more than a handful of papers. A few blocks behind him, his house had burned down, his business had been gutted, and all of his speculative gains were destroyed.
Fletcher needed someplace to turn, and as far as he was concerned, the Tremont House was as good a place as any. The Tremont was one of the city’s finest hotels, and Fletcher knew its owner through his Chicago Club connections.
“I don’t believe you should be here,” John Drake told him right away. “We’re too close to the flames. We could be forced to flee at any moment.”
“I’m just here for a drink,” Fletcher said. “I reckon you’d rather serve it than let it all burn?”
Drake loosened his tie. “Mister Bingham,” he said, “I cannot be responsible if something happens to you.”
“Humph,” Fletcher said. “I’ve made a fortune taking risks. I’m not about to stop now.”
“WAKE UP,” Lillian said as she shook Simon’s shoulder.
Simon opened his eyes and saw that he had been asleep on the Tribune roof. At first he was surprised that he had slept at all, but then he tried to stand, and he realized how tired he was. His whole body seemed achy and greasy; his clothes had been grinding against the tar, and he had been sweating profusely.
Simon looked around and saw that the fire had bypassed the building. The wind was blowing north-northeast, and the Tribune was due east of the blaze. Simon knew that the Tribune had dodged a bullet; at least for the moment, the building seemed to have been spared. Fifteen men still stood on the roof, wielding shovels, pickaxes, and wooden planks.
“Have I been sleeping long?” Simon asked.
“Only a few minutes,” Lillian said. “Maybe fifteen at most.” She had an odd look in her eye. “Simon, I must go home.”
“Why?” Simon asked.
“You and the othe’s have things under control,” she replied. “And you were right— I must go where I can be useful.”
“Mm.” Simon was not yet fully awake, so he squinted through morning eyes. “Your home isn’t in danger, is it?”
“Oh, you must stop pretending that we’re not in dire straits. Miste’ Bross and the othe’s, they won’t acknowledge what is truly happening—”
“Look,” Simon snapped as he got up from the ground. “I’ve had quite enough of you acting as if you’re the only intelligent person in town. Do you take me for an imbecile? Do you presume that I cannot grasp what I see?”
Simon and Lillian looked at each other. For a moment neither one moved. Finally Lillian turned down her head.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “I did not mean it so.”
“Neither did I.” Simon bit his lip. “Listen to me,” he said. “You may go home if you like... but I cannot go with you.”
“I would never expect that from you,” Lillian said.
Deacon Bross appeared behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “I shall ensure that everything is safe.”
Simon looked at Bross, then looked at Lillian. “Good luck,” he said.
“To you too,” she replied. And she smiled a grim, world-weary smile.
BY THAT POINT, Courthouse Square was devoid of human life, having been turned into an earthly circle of hell. Hurricane-force winds blasted against the buildings’ outer shells; the wreckage shuddered and rained bricks upon the ground. Three-hundred-pound blocks were lifted into the air and tossed across the streets, shattering on impact and sending pieces ricocheting in all directions.
Temperatures exceeded three thousand degrees, double the temperature of volcanic lava. Trees exploded from the heat of their own resin. Streetcar tracks warped in the heat, groped across the ground, and arched into the air. Several iron columns were not only melted, but vaporized. Streetlamps dissolved into liquid and fell into the streets.
Then the blaze jumped the river again. A piece of burning coal hit a train on the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. The train was carrying, of all things, a shipment of kerosene. The cars exploded in sequence, sending superheated gas spraying in all directions.
About an hour earlier, an ember had ignited Lill’s Brewery on the Near North Side. But the blaze was extinguished quickly, thanks to the brewery’s proximity to the lake. The railroad would not be so lucky.
The explosion set fire to Wright’s Stables next door, and like Parmelee’s Stables, the building was full of fresh hay and manure. Within minutes, the whole three-story building was in flames, and several prized horses were killed. The surrounding area was a labyrinth of coal cars, storage sheds, and alleyways. The whole area erupted, making the fire too large for any bucket brigade or fire engine to handle.
Until then, the North Side had stayed mostly unscathed by the flames. But no one had expected that immunity to last. The wind had always been blowing northward, and the fire had already jumped the river once, so everyone knew it could do it again. Now that the fire had found a solid foothold, it would only be a matter of time before the whole North Side was engulfed— and all of its neighborhoods would be wiped out by the flames.
Chapter Sixteen: The City That Made Us Rich, Then Busted Us
“In every door-way were groups and families, on the curbs, in the gutters, everywhere... with misery depicted on their countenances and with despair in their hearts.”
— John Chapin
BY THAT POINT, NEARLY ALL OF CHICAGO’S TELEGRAPH CABLES HAD FAILED, and the Western Union office had burned, cutting off direct contact with the outside world. But many trains were still running, and they were unloading refugees in Joliet, Waukegan, and other nearby towns. Reporters rushed up to hear the victims’ stories, and from there the news was transmitted all over the country. The entire U.S. telegraph network was abuzz, and no one spoke of anything but the fire. It was the first time the whole nation had followed a disaster as it happened.
In New York, Clara Caldwell DeWitt had rushed down to Wall Street. Her husband Henry was with her, and they were preparing to leave for Rhinebeck if needed. Clara prayed that her brother and nephew were safe, but she had no way of knowing the truth. Behind her stood a crowd of investors, all of whom were anxious over what might happen next.
In Washington, Senator James Harlan stood by the War Department’s main telegraphs. He listened for news of his son-in-law, but he didn’t hear a thing. His daughter and granddaughter were waiting at his home, anxious for any sort of news. President Grant’s aides were rushing in and out of the building, delivering dispatches to the White House next door.
Similar scenes played out in San Francisco, which was afraid of losing California’s main link to the East; in New Orleans, which was wary of the Yankees but depended on Chicago trade; and in countless other cities all over the continent. The Transatlantic Cable even brought the news to London, from where it was conveyed on to Paris and Berlin.
Dozens of cities— and thousands of people— were already pledging their aid, and out-of-town Chicagoans were trying desperately to get home. J. Young Scammon dropped everything to return, while Chicago’s first mayor, William Ogden, rushed to catch the nearest train. But it would take days to reach the stricken city, and in the meantime, there was little anyone c
ould do. Chicago had no choice but to fend for herself.
ROBERT LOADED THE LAST FEW FILES INTO SAMUEL FULLER’S CARRIAGE, and he stood back while Fuller whipped the reins. Robert watched the carriage disappear down the street, then without batting a eye, he went back to his office. Along the way, he pulled the tablecloth off the reception room table, and a vase of flowers toppled over. Robert knew he wasn’t thinking rationally, but at that point he didn’t care. The offices were filling with smoke, and papers were turning brown in the heat. Robert forced himself to stay focused as he threw the cloth on his desk and piled his papers on top of it.
He reached for the file cabinet, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the drawer. He was tempted to leave the Insanity File to burn, or maybe even to throw it into the flames. He tried to tell himself that his mother would be all right. He looked out the window, which revealed a panorama of fire, and he listened to the crackling sounds that came from adjacent rooms. He knew he’d have to make up his mind quickly. He tried to ignore his inner turmoil, and he told himself that he couldn’t act on impulse.
Finally he wrenched open the drawer, grabbed the Insanity File, and threw it onto the tablecloth. Then he gathered the corners of the cloth, wrapped all the papers together, and slung the makeshift bag over his shoulder. Then he raced out of the building with no time to spare. The office walls were aflame, and support beams were groaning and cracking overhead.
Robert headed north toward the Clark Street Bridge. But on the bridge’s approach, he came across a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks. A young boy’s body lay crushed under a fallen marble slab. To Robert, time seemed to slow down, and the color drained out of his face. His first thought was that the boy looked like Tommy. Robert’s eyes clouded over. Then he wondered who the boy might really be. The body was lying face down, so Robert couldn’t tell if the child had known what hit him.
Robert looked up and decided not to cross the bridge after all; with the North Side already burning, he didn’t think it was safe. Instead, he climbed down to the riverbank, which was low enough to be somewhat shielded from the flames. The mouth of the river was barely a quarter mile away, and from there, Robert could take refuge along Lake Michigan’s shores.
He took his bag full of papers, clutched it against his chest, and ran.
LILLIAN UNLOCKED THE DOOR TO HER TERRACE ROW APARTMENT. “Fathe’?” she yelled as she climbed the stairs to his room. “Are you awake?”
She entered Andrist’s bedroom and found him staring out the window. From there, the blaze looked like a giant orange cloud hanging off in the west.
“Hello,” Andrist mumbled, but he barely turned to look at her. “You’ve come.” He had an eerie numbness in his voice.
“Naturally,” Lillian said. “Father, are you all right?”
Andrist sighed and turned around. His face was long, and the energy seemed to have gone out of his eyes. “I suppose that— well—”
“Have you packed anything?”
“No, nothing,” Andrist said. “I... I haven’t packed a thing.”
Lillian took a step toward him and sniffed the air. “Wait a moment,” she said. “Have you been drinking?”
“Drinking?” he said. “I’m not sure... perhaps. I think so.”
“How much have you had?”
Andrist shrugged. “I don’t remember... a little bit, well, some I think... perhaps more. I saw the fire coming at us, and I... thought that drinking would be the most prudent thing to do.”
“I think not,” Lillian said. “Sober up immediately and come downstai’s when you have finished. We have a great deal to do.”
“Enjoy yourself,” Andrist replied as Lillian walked out the door. “I truly love you, little girl.”
Lillian stopped and turned back to him. She didn’t know how to react. “I am not a little girl,” she finally said. “Do not call me that again.”
GENERAL SHERIDAN WAS FLANKED BY A COP AS HE STALKED UP TO JAMES HILDRETH’S ASSISTANTS. Hildreth’s work was going nowhere, and everyone knew it.
“I shall tell you again,” Sheridan said to Cornelius Mahoney. “My men need your supplies. Your powder belongs to the United States Government, and I am acting—”
“If you get any powder,” Mahoney said, “it will be when this gun gets emptied into your chest.” He cocked his revolver. “And I’m just the man who would do it.”
Sheridan started to turn red. “You goddamned four-flushing peacock! You deadbeat! If you do not hand over the powder, I’ll have you arrested—”
“Sir!” a man yelled as he ran up to the group. “Mister Hildreth needs five more kegs.”
“All right,” Mahoney said, and then he turned back to Sheridan. “Truthfully, General, if you would like to make yourself useful, you could always help to carry them.”
Sheridan threw up his arms in frustration. “I should knock you into a cocked hat!” he snapped. “Do you know who I am?”
Mahoney shrugged and shook his head. “I do not give a damn,” he replied. “You cannot have the powder.”
THE TRIBUNE’S NEWSROOM WAS LIT BY CANDLELIGHT, creating a soft luminance that wafted through the building. No one spoke above a whisper, and no man left his desk. Everyone was concentrating on the task at hand.
The silence was broken when someone yelled “finished!” and with a scurrying of feet, the forms for pages two and three went to the press room. Then, at long last, the printing of the Tribune’s most important issue began.
Simon was in a daze as he walked down the hall. For the moment, the building didn’t seem to be in danger, but Simon’s heart was pounding as hard as it ever had. In some ways he felt giddy, but in other ways he felt exhausted.
Aside from his rooftop nap, Simon hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. The usual symptoms of sleepiness had passed; now he felt dazed and nonchalant, as if none of these events were actually happening. Everything seemed to be moving with a dreamlike type of grace. The things that had once seemed so important— his corruption story, his irresponsible brother, and the like— were now so trivial that they seemed to slip his mind.
Memories then seemed to take on a new life. He remembered arguing with J.J. in Fletcher’s apartment, and walking through the halls of the Courthouse. That shall never happen again, he told himself, it’s impossible. The Courthouse is gone, Fletcher’s building has burned, the whole area is in ruins... and so on. Simon even recalled the sound of that summer’s cicadas and the twinkling of the fireflies. Bits and pieces of the past kept on flooding through his brain.
Then his mind started spewing out questions. Most of the questions were irrelevant, or at least incoherent: Did the mayor get all the equipment he’d requested? How high might the smoke go? Do I look presentable? How long will the fire last? Will I be hurt?
Simon was supposed to be reading the last set of proofs, so he sat down and tried to focus. But his concentration was so poor that he could barely skim the paragraphs, and he could only get a vague idea of what was being said.
Suddenly something jumped out at him. A sentence was missing a semicolon, which turned it into a run-on. Simon went to the copy desk, but he found that the proofreaders were busy. He looked around frantically, then rushed to Sam Medill’s office.
“Sam?” he said. “I found something.”
He reached Sam’s office and found his city editor asleep on the couch. Simon knelt down and repeated himself. “Sam?”
Sam didn’t respond in the least.
“Sam, we’re missing punctuation,” Simon told him. “We must fix this.” Simon shook him a little. “Sam.”
Sam Medill groaned and stretched his neck, but otherwise seemed relaxed.
“There’s an error in this article,” Simon repeated. “Sam, do you hear me?”
He didn’t. Sam just rolled over and lay with his face to the wall.
Simon leaned back and took a deep breath.
“It’s no use,” came a voice. “With the Saturday fire, he has been working ne
arly forty-eight hours straight. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could not wake him now.”
Simon looked up and saw George Upton stepping out of his office.
“George,” Simon told him, “we must correct this immediately.”
“You may always find his brother,” Upton replied. “I last saw Joseph Medill upstairs.” Upton forced a smile. “I must say, I returned from vacation yesterday. Why must things always go wrong on my first day back from vacation?”
Simon shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied. He tried to come up with more to say, but he found himself at a loss.
Upton locked his office and twirled the keys around his finger. “Well, at least it shall be a wonderful paper,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow.”
MARY LINCOLN WAS PACING AROUND LIKE AN ANIMAL IN A CAGE. Lizzie was trying to calm her, but Mary was having none of it.
“That I am so cruelly persecuted by a bad son, on whom I had bestowed the greater part of my all, rankles deeply in my heart,” Mary said. “That wretched young man, but old in sin, has a fearful account yet to render to his Maker!”
“You cannot possibly mean that,” Lizzie replied.
“As to you— you have tried your game of robbery long enough. Trust not to the belief that others’ tongues have not been rancorous against you all summer, and they have maintained to the very last, that you dared not venture into my house and my presence.”
“It isn’t your house,” Lizzie said, “for in the event you haven’t considered it, you’ve been living upon the goodwill of your son.”
“Living? Goodwill? I think not!” Mary yelled. “My heart has been made sick. There are days when I cannot walk straight. My hair is fast becoming gray with this conduct. Witness my exact weight barely four months past: since then, as a matter of course, many pounds of flesh have departed.”
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