Lizzie closed her eyes and sighed. “I do not question the fact that you’ve been through an ordeal—”
“An ordeal of your making!” Mary yelled back. “I am now in constant receipt of letters from my friends denouncing you in the bitterest terms, six letters from prominent Springfield men such as you never associated with. You are not worthy to wipe the dirt from my feet. Two separate clergymen have told me that they think it advisable to offer up prayers for you in church, on account of your wickedness against me and high heaven.”
“Mary,” Lizzie snapped, “I know more of the clergy than you. Do not use their names in such contemptible ways—”
“Contemptuous?” Mary snapped. “I? Contemptible?”
“If what you say is true, then pray tell me, who are these pansophical people you speak of?”
“It is appalling to see how vicious your sort can become, the most unprincipled, heartless, avaricious people on the face of the earth. I detest you all. God does not allow sin to go unpunished, thus you have injured yourself, not me, by your wicked conduct.”
Lizzie bowed her head. She didn’t know what to do. By that point, she had admitted she couldn’t reason with her cousin, but she knew she had to calm her down somehow. Lizzie feared for their safety; the fire was still at least six blocks away, and it wasn’t heading in their direction, but Lizzie took nothing for granted. If the worst were to happen, Mary would have to think clearly, and she would have to resist panic in order to survive.
Mary kept on rambling, but Lizzie forced herself not to listen. As angry as she felt, she knew how ill Mary was, and she knew that an argument would not solve a thing. She just stood back and let Mary say her piece, while Lizzie tried to think of a feasible solution.
By and by, Lizzie thought of her cousin’s medicines. The chloral hydrate was meant to help Mary sleep, but it could be used just as well as an all-around sedative. All the same, Lizzie hated the idea of medicating her cousin, and she told herself that it wouldn’t be safe.
“My Gethsemane is ever with me,” Mary was saying, “and God alone can lighten the burden until I am reunited with my dearly beloved husband and children! In grief, words are a poor consolation. Prayers, tears, are unavailing, and I am left to my great desolation. But when God is willing, we must bow to his irrevocable decrees!”
Lizzie nodded slightly but didn’t say a word. She was trying to decide on the best thing to do. She looked outside, at the smoke and flames billowing up in the distance, then looked at the comforts of Robert’s home. Lizzie kept a stiff upper lip, held her thoughts to herself, and hoped the house would remain as safe as it looked.
TWO MILES TO THE NORTH, some of the Lincolns’ prized possessions were going up in smoke. The Chicago Historical Society held many of Abraham Lincoln’s personal effects. The mementoes ranged from mundane items like his walking stick, to priceless treasures like his original draft of the Emancipation Proclamation. J. Young Scammon had intended the building to be among the safest in Chicago, but around three o’clock in the morning, all of its artifacts burned. An elderly janitor— who was trying to save the most important relics— violently perished in the process.
A few blocks away, the Water Tower stood tall against the flames. To Marshal Williams, the tower was the city’s most important structure, since it was the only thing that allowed his men to keep fighting. Its limestone steeple still reached toward the sky, ready to take on all the power that the inferno had to offer.
Across the street, the pumping station was still fully staffed. Engineers milled around quietly, reassured by the interior’s wide-open spaces. They watched the tanks, pipes, and pressure gauges, all of which seemed to be in good working order. The three massive pumps were still keeping up with demand, despite the many firehoses and faucets that were tapping the supply.
The building’s Achilles heel— which Williams had never considered— lay directly overhead. At the time of the station’s construction, the city had just spent a fortune on engineering, so no one wanted to spend extra money on the roof. That meant using pine instead of shale. The fire danger had never occurred to Williams because of the massive water mains leading through the structure.
But around three o’clock in the morning, that flaw proved to be fatal. The station’s downfall began when little tongues of flame started gnawing at the gutters. Then, within a few minutes, the blaze had encircled the building. A ten-foot-long firebrand sailed through the sky, and it hit the roof with considerable force. A portion of the engine room ceiling collapsed, and the fire broke into the station.
The engineers didn’t bat an eye. They were determined to keep the water running for as long as they could. But at the same time, they knew they had to shut it down quickly. If the fire hit a working boiler, then a major explosion would ensue. A strong blast could damage the underground piping, and it was anyone’s guess what sort of chaos would result.
Williams was south of the river when he learned what had happened. He rushed toward the scene, and he had just passed Superior Street when he saw the spectacle up ahead.
The engineers were fanning out across the Water Works, ignoring their natural instinct to flee. In the boiler rooms, the stokers closed the furnaces’ dampers. In the engine room, one man clutched a metal wheel and turned it with all the strength he could muster; the pipelines shuddered as a valve opened, and hot steam vented into the room. Another man rushed in with a coil of rope; together the men tied down the wheels so that the valves would stay open. Then, when everything was done, the men evacuated quickly.
Williams knew there was nothing else to be done. He turned his wagon back around and headed toward the south.
The pumping station fared as well as could be expected. The rest of the ceiling caved in, and the fire began feasting on the wooden floors. The blaze pummeled against the machinery and tore into the serpentine pipes. Then, at long last, the equipment gave way, and the water drained out of the tower.
All over the city, the water pressure dropped, then disappeared altogether. Firemen felt their hoses go limp in their hands, and all hopes of fighting the fire vanished, as faucets and hydrants went dry. All machines that ran on steam power— including the Tribune’s giant presses— sputtered and ground to a halt.
With that, Chicago was left defenseless, and the fire was given free reign.
BILLY HOLBROOK WOKE TO THE SOUNDS OF SOMEONE POUNDING ON HIS DOOR. He rolled over and tried to ignore it.
“Hello!” came a voice. “Open up!”
Billy waited for his mother to open the door, but the knocking continued. Billy grumbled and dragged himself from his bed. Thunderous explosions were coming from the south; Billy thought a good storm was on its way, and he found himself hoping it would bring relief from the heat.
A strange clatter interrupted Billy’s train of thought. He looked up and frowned. He thought it might have been his imagination, although he was not one to be hearing things.
Finally he walked to the door and opened it. There was no one on the doorstep.
Billy’s mother Trudy appeared in her nightgown. “What on Earth is going on?” she asked.
“Nuthin’,” Billy said, “just a scamp.”
They were about to head back upstairs when an ember crashed into a nearby sycamore. The branches flew downward, then sprung back up into place, as pieces of debris fell through. Billy and Trudy both jumped; they turned to their left and saw another piece of wood smash into the street. More debris was blowing in their direction. Billy suddenly realized what was happening.
“Children!” Trudy yelled. “Ginny! Frederick! You must get up at once!”
Billy followed his mother as she ran back upstairs. He didn’t have time to think; he just roused his brothers and forced them out of their beds. They couldn’t afford to grab more than a handful of things. They sprinted around the house while more clattering sounds filtered in from outside.
“Where is your father?” she asked.
“I ain’t any idea,” Billy
said.
Trudy looked around for a moment, then ran back downstairs.
“Blast,” Billy said as a cloud of smoke came into the foyer. He ran for the back, threw open the kitchen door, and left it gaping open behind him.
The remaining Holbrooks were still trying to grab their things. Billy’s siblings had nothing on but their nightclothes. His brother Richard was the last to come running down the stairs. The sisters rushed through the kitchen to the alley in back.
Billy had already hitched up their horse, and now he was climbing into the saddle. He had to stop the animal from running off prematurely. His mother and siblings raced out of the house and jumped into the wagon. As Trudy Holbrook sat down, she looked back and saw a mass of flame behind her. Without a word, Billy whipped the reins, and the family took off.
The Holbrooks held on tight as they were jostled about. The road was filled with debris, and the horse was so anxious that it ran over the rubble in its path. Suddenly the carriage’s front axle gave out, and the wagon’s contents spilled across the street. The horse tried to keep going, but the wagon now dragged along the ground. Then the axle snagged on a curb, and the horse was forced to stop. Billy looked back and saw that the wagon was done for. He helped his family gather up a few things; then he unhitched the horse and jumped back into the saddle, and all of the Holbrooks took off down the street.
“NOW WAIT A MOMENT,” Elias Colbert was saying. “You cannot possibly—”
“I’m afraid I speak the truth,” pressman Conrad Kahler replied.
“What’s going on?” Simon asked.
“There is no use in writing anymore,” Kahler said. “We’ve been forced to shut off the boilers. It would be impossible to print the paper now.”
Simon frowned. “You mean—”
“But there must be a way,” Colbert said. “I refuse to believe that it has all been in vain.”
Kahler shrugged. “You may see for yourselves.”
Colbert nodded and made a beeline downstairs. Simon followed, and several others followed some distance behind.
Simon’s instincts had already told him that the day’s issue was lost, and that the best thing they could hope for was to somehow save the building. But no one at the Tribune seemed prepared to admit it. Other buildings might burn, they thought, but the fireproof Tribune was invincible. G.P. English had even brought belongings from home for safekeeping, and many other employees were now following his lead.
Simon looked around as he strode through the building. Some of the windows were already cracking in the heat, and the varnish on the furniture was starting to char. Medill had closed the shutters facing McVicker’s Theatre on the east, and he had placed men in every room with buckets and wet rags. But no one truly knew if that would suffice.
Finally Simon’s group entered the press room. It was a long narrow space, containing two sets of eight-cylinder Hoe presses. It was the biggest and fastest printing facility in Chicago, but now the machinery lay perfectly still.
Colbert looked at the idle rolls of paper. Everything seemed deceptively normal; only half the issue had been printed thus far, and it included stories about the Democratic Party, the agricultural markets, and the Episcopal Church. The front page of the Tribune, with its sensational headlines, had yet to go to press. Colbert walked to the pile and grabbed a copy for himself.
“What are you doing?” Simon asked.
“Just what it appears,” Colbert said. “I shall always preserve this: the Chicago Tribune of October 9, 1871.” Colbert looked up. “The date alone seems infamous now, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Simon replied.
“Well,” Colbert said, “I must go back up immediately. That telescope of mine must now be brought to safety.”
AT THE TREMONT HOUSE, Fletcher Bingham downed another snifter of brandy. By that point, John Drake was giving away drinks for free, since there wasn’t much point in charging for them anymore.
Drake didn’t bother himself with Fletcher; he only wanted his guests to be safe. As the fire neared, Drake strode down the hallways with increasing urgency, checking every suite to make sure the patrons were leaving. Sometimes he had to break locks, and in a few cases, he even kicked in the doorframes. Drake found one man half-dressed in his room, trying to get his wife out of bed. Another couple yelled at him for barging in unannounced, but Drake didn’t care.
“I had warned you this would happen,” Drake said as Fletcher downed his last drink. “You must leave straight away.”
Fletcher nodded and started walking toward the exit. He was thinking of all the other businessmen he knew, and he tried to figure out the safest place to seek shelter. Smoke was already curling down the stairs. Two men were carrying a large woman to the lobby, and a mother was calling out for her children. Someone rushed past with an armful of clothing; Fletcher had to step aside to let the man past.
Drake, meanwhile, was heading toward his office. He looked out the window and saw that the blaze was fast approaching. He rushed to his safe, worked the combination as quickly as he could, and pulled the door open. Inside were several large bundles of cash. Drake grabbed all the money and arranged it inside a suitcase. Then he closed and locked the safe, latched the suitcase, and carried it out the door.
Drake knew the building was done for, but he was determined not to give up. He may have lost this battle, he thought, but he would somehow win the war— the question was how.
WHEN SIMON RETURNED TO THE ROOF, he found Joseph Medill ordering the others around. “You three, take that corner,” Medill was saying. “James, take care of the shovels, and get more if you need them. You four, take control of the center part of the roof.”
Simon strode to his side. “Mister Medill,” he said, “I spoke to Kahler a bit longer. He now admits there’s some water in the reserve tanks. It might be enough to sustain a short press run, so they’re going to try it.”
Medill didn’t seem impressed. “Well,” he said, “I see nothing to lose.”
Simon blinked. He had never seen Medill as the type to give up. “Sir?” he said. “You’re not implying—”
“Oh, come off it, Mister Caldwell, I’m not implying a thing,” Medill snapped. “What am I but a man who always says what he means?”
Simon nodded and bit his lip.
Medill didn’t want to say so, but he feared for the roof’s safety. It was supposed to be made of a “fireproof” material designed to resist three hundred degrees of heat. But Medill had seen it soften in the hot sun, and he was afraid that it could ignite the whole building.
“Listen to me,” Medill finally said. “The winds have shifted, and a new tongue of fire is coming up from Polk Street. The new front is running north on Dearborn, so we are now in its path.”
“But Polk Street is a mile away,” Simon replied. “It can’t be all that dire quite yet.”
“Well,” Medill said, “with luck, we might have some time.” He stayed expressionless for a moment; in the light of the fire, his silvery beard seemed to glow orange. Then he clucked his tongue and turned away.
Simon didn’t know how to respond. He just wiped his forehead and looked around the roof. The men were struggling to put out the fires around them. The fire’s suction was so great that it was drawing in air from miles around, picking up leaves and prairie grasses along the way. Simon could see thousands of particles churning in mid-air.
Medill stepped back toward him. “Mister Caldwell,” he said, “I did not hire you stand pat. You must get a shovel from James and assist in the effort. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” he replied.
“I am going out to check the blaze’s progress,” Medill said. “I shall return as soon as possible. Until then, my brother is in charge.”
ROBERT HAD REACHED THE RIVER’S MOUTH and was heading south along the lakeshore. He couldn’t stop thinking of the dead boy he had seen; the image haunted and disturbed him to seemingly no end. He now feared for all the children in danger. Robert ask
ed himself if they’d know how to survive, but he decided that he would rather not know. Then he inadvertently thought of his daughter, and he nearly had an inner collapse. Robert struggled to keep his wits about him, for he felt horribly helpless and alone.
He passed the White Stockings’ baseball field, which was packed with refugees. Many people were burying their things to protect them from the fire, but the police were berating them for defacing the grounds. The sky was starting to brighten, but the sunrise itself was hidden in the smoke. Clouds were beginning to roll in overhead, and many were praying for rain to fall, but nothing seemed to be happening yet.
As Robert continued southward, he saw his beloved Chicago Club meeting for one last champagne breakfast. Many of its members were conspicuously missing, but many others— including George Holbrook— had made it a point to appear. The clubhouse had so far evaded the flames, so Holbrook served his patrons as if nothing unusual was happening.
“To Chicago,” came a voice, “the city that made us rich, and then busted us.”
Robert heard champagne glasses clinking as members toasted the blaze. Then, moments later, the clubhouse finally caught fire. The evacuation was calm and orderly. The club members stuffed their pockets full of bottles, while Holbrook helped carry the furniture outside. The members set down their things by the lakeshore and quietly finished their meal.
Robert kept moving. As much as he wanted to help, he knew he had to get home. He trudged through Lake Park until he reached Terrace Row. Many of J. Young Scammon’s employees were there, filling a carriage with Scammon’s famous tomes. They had already loaded up a large globe, a beautiful orrery, and countless classical novels.
“You must not do this,” Robert said.
Scammon’s wife Maria was standing by the door. “Why on Earth not?”
“You must leave things as they are,” Robert said. “You must. That is always the best—”
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