1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “Now wait a moment,” Mrs. Scammon replied. “Mister Lincoln, are you all right?”

  “Of course I am,” Robert snapped. “I just— I see—” He put his hand to his forehead and took a deep breath. “There is no imminent danger,” Robert said. “If you move it unnecessarily, and something is damaged, then the insurance would undoubtedly deny any claim.”

  “Insurance?” Mrs. Scammon asked. “Sir, with all due respect, you must stop thinking like a lawyer.”

  Robert put up his hands. “Ma’am, you know I only have your best interests at heart.”

  “So have I.” Mrs. Scammon paused and seemed to mull things over. “You have been through a great deal... it is etched in your face.”

  “It cannot be,” Robert said.

  “When was the last time you ate? Or the last time you slept?”

  “Mrs. Scammon,” Robert said, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Food and rest seemed like an extravagance, but he was starving and exhausted.

  “You are on the verge of collapse,” she replied. “You must come inside.”

  Chapter Seventeen: The Battle is Lost

  “There I sat with a few others by our household goods, calmly awaiting the destruction of our property— one of the most splendid blocks in Chicago... away it floated in black clouds over Lake Michigan.”

  — William “Deacon” Bross

  A NARROW TONGUE OF FIRE MOVED THROUGH DOWNTOWN and finished off the last few buildings still standing. The Palmer House, the Post Office, Crosby’s Opera House, the giant Field and Leiter Store, and Florenz Ziegfeld’s music academy all went up in flames. The Chicago Times, Evening Post, Republican, Evening Mail, Staats-Zeitung, Volks-Zeitung, and Journal had all burned, leaving the Tribune as the only functioning paper in town. But within the hour, the Tribune offices were also flanked by the blaze. The staff tried to keep the flames at bay for as long as they could, but by seven o’clock, the end had drawn near.

  Medill had gotten as far south as Monroe Street, but he couldn’t go any further. On his right, twenty wooden buildings were igniting, and on his left, a sea of fire extended toward the south. It wasn’t hard to guess what would happen next: the blaze would engulf McVicker’s Theatre, then the Mackin Building, then the Tribune. Medill hated to admit defeat, but he didn’t have a choice. He turned and headed back toward his building.

  “It is over,” Medill said as he emerged onto the roof. “The battle is lost— we cannot save the block.”

  Simon looked around. He couldn’t believe that the fireproof Tribune would burn after all. He wiped the grime from his forehead; his face was blackened, his hair was singed, and his clothes were full of holes. He was too tired to consider what the loss of the Tribune would mean; he just wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could.

  “There is nothing for us to do but to think of our own safety,” Medill said. “Let us go.”

  Simon nodded. With that, he and the others began heading for the stairs.

  BY THAT POINT, Marshal Williams only cared about one thing, and that was to rescue his wife. He ran into his boarding house and scrambled up the stairs. To his surprise, a policeman and fireman were already there. They had enlisted his neighbors to help haul away his things.

  “Where is she?” Williams asked as he ran from room to room.

  “Your wife has already left,” said Police Captain George Miller.

  “But where has she gone to?”

  “I am not certain,” Miller said, “but I am sure she is safe.”

  Williams didn’t want to take his word for it, but at the moment, he didn’t have a choice. He turned to Fireman Andrew Coffey. “Why are you not with your engine?”

  “I was told that the Long John was destroyed,” Coffey said. “If you would like me to assist somewhere else—”

  “It’s no matter,” Williams replied. He looked around the apartment. He had never lived extravagantly, but it had taken him years to save up for what he had. “Will you help take down this piano of mine?”

  “Certainly,” Coffey replied. He and the fire marshal went to the piano, but they saw that it was too large to easily fit through the doors. Williams sat down and started unscrewing its legs. Coffey thought it was a fool’s errand, since the fire was so close, but he didn’t dare say so.

  Then a window cracked in the heat, and Williams realized how little time he had. He gave up on the piano, ran to his brand-new stove, and shoved it over.

  “What are you doing?” Coffey asked.

  At first Williams didn’t answer. He pulled up the carpet, which had been partially pinned under the stove, and he rolled it up for transport. “Aside from the piano, this is the most valuable item I own,” Williams said. “Take the far end of the roll.”

  Coffey nodded and helped Williams lift the carpet. The men carried it down the stairs to the street. They had to rush to get it to safety, but they managed. Williams headed back in an attempt to save his stove. He had to struggle against the wind, and the heat overwhelmed him halfway up the stairs. At first he tried to force himself past it, but then his fireman’s instincts stepped in, and he realized it would be a suicidal mistake.

  Williams stood on the stairs for a moment. Then he choked down a small lump in his throat. “That’s it,” he said as he turned around and abandoned his home to the flames.

  AT THE TRIBUNE, there was no time for gentle awakenings. Medill found a half-dozen employees who had laid down to rest, and he yelled for them to flee. His brother Sam woke quickly as someone shook him from his sleep.

  Simon rushed to his desk and tried to save a few things, but he didn’t have time to go through any of his drawers. He just grabbed what he could and raced for the door. Colbert was working to carry out files; he ran into a group of compositors and proofreaders, and he enlisted them in his efforts.

  Simon got downstairs and proceeded to the stables in back. His horse was still tied up where he’d left it, but now the structure was starting to burn, and Simon knew there was no time to lose. He untied the horse’s holster, placed the bundle on its back, and climbed into the saddle. Then he whipped the reins and emerged into the alley.

  He passed Joseph and Sam Medill, who were just leaving the building. They were carrying volumes of the Tribune’s back issues, but by that point, the fire had gotten so close that the papers were starting to ignite. Medill realized that the long vigil could have been a mistake; the men had remained at their posts for so long that the fire had cut off nearly all means of escape. Medill and his brother had to drop their files and run. They followed Simon down Madison, where both sides of the street were on fire. The men held their breath, closed their eyes, and raced down the center of the roadway.

  Behind them, Colbert and his men were the last ones to leave. Colbert rushed to the street, but then he saw flames blocking the path that the others had taken moments before. Colbert ran back into the alley. “Boys, run for your lives!” he shouted as he sprinted in the only direction he could think of.

  Colbert raced through the stables, which were now burning fiercely. He ignored the screams of the horses as he led his men through. The mangers were collapsing, and the opposite wall seemed nearly ready to go. Then Colbert heard a growl, and he turned to see a large guard dog baring its teeth.

  “Oh no,” Colbert said.

  The dog jumped forward, and Colbert yelled for his men to run. He tried to fend off the dog with a stick. Then, as soon as his men had escaped, Colbert made a break for it. He was the last one to reach the opposite side of the building; he raced out the back door just as the far wall began to give way.

  A block to the east, Simon reached Wabash Avenue and emerged from the flames. His horse was terrified, and Simon had to hold on tight to avoid being thrown to the ground. Behind him, the Tribune was no longer visible, but Simon didn’t care; he knew what would happen next, and he didn’t need to see it.

  Then Simon’s mind strayed for a moment. He realized he was right in front of the Clifton House. The fire was r
avaging the room in which Tad Lincoln had died, and flames were shooting from the windows of Mary’s old suite. Simon thought of Robert, and of what he had said when they’d met with Doctor Smith. Simon shuddered to think that barely twelve hours had passed; he felt as if a whole lifetime had gone by.

  After a moment, Simon turned away from the building and rushed toward the lake.

  AT ROBERT’S HOUSE, Lizzie Brown was quietly hurrying up the stairs. Mary was still pacing around the parlor, but Lizzie hoped she could be left alone for a moment. Lizzie checked to make sure Mary wasn’t looking in her direction; then she tiptoed down the hall and slipped into Mary’s bedroom.

  Lizzie knew that Mary usually kept her pills by her nightstand. But try what she might, Lizzie couldn’t find them. She shoved aside a pile of newspapers and a flurry of sales receipts, and she rummaged through the nightstand’s drawer. Then she crossed to the table on the other side of the bed, and she continued her search. But she found nothing but junk.

  Lizzie stepped back and tried to think. The medications had been there the previous morning, and Lizzie’s first thought was that Mary had hidden them. But then she decided it probably wasn’t the case. In all likelihood, she thought, Robert had mistakenly put the pills away. She knew that Robert meant well, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed. Lizzie had taken care of her cousin on more than one occasion, so she had a fairly clear idea of what she was doing. Robert, she felt, was only mucking things up.

  She tried to put herself in Robert’s shoes, and she tried to imagine where he might have put the pills. She checked the cabinet to her right, and sure enough, she found all of Mary’s pill bottles inside.

  Lizzie paused for a moment, and she debated whether she should go through with her plan. She kept trying to think of alternatives, but she came up empty-handed. Finally she sighed, grabbed two pills, and headed back downstairs.

  ROBERT WAS SITTING QUIETLY AT THE SCAMMONS’ KITCHEN TABLE. He mused that this was not at all what he had planned; originally he had meant to stay home that day, and Billy was supposed to make him breakfast. But now, considering all that had happened, he felt it was no time to rest. Still, Maria Scammon had made him some eggs, and she had poured him some coffee, and he didn’t have the heart to say he didn’t want it. He just sat at the table, picked at his meal, and tried to pretend it was like any other morning.

  Mrs. Scammon, meanwhile, had gone upstairs to the roof. She saw the Chicago Club burning a few blocks to the north, and she could tell that the wind had shifted more toward the east. Hildreth was now only one block away, setting up explosives on Congress Street. Sheridan had gotten so frustrated that he was now trying to demolish buildings by hand. Mrs. Scammon watched him brandish an axe and chop away at a house.

  Mrs. Scammon took a deep breath and headed back downstairs. “You were wrong,” she said as she headed past Robert. “The flames are still bearing down.”

  Robert felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. “Mrs. Scammon—”

  “I mean no disrespect,” she said, “but you must acknowledge the truth. I shall continue the evacuation— insurance be damned.”

  And with that, she headed back to the street and went on loading up the carriage.

  THE CINDER CAME OUT OF NOWHERE AND CRASHED INTO SIMON’S HORSE. Simon had no time to react; the horse jumped and kicked up its rear legs in pain, and Simon bounced back and forth in his saddle. He tried to calm the animal, but it started barreling down the street. At first it seemed to be racing toward the lakeshore, but then it made a sharp turn toward the left, and Simon was jerked so hard that he lost his grip on the reins. He toppled out of the saddle and rolled onto the ground. He tried to catch himself as he landed, but then he slid down an embankment. Simon heard a loud pop as his knee twisted to the side; then a jagged piece of rock sliced into his leg. Finally he landed in the water, and he felt a shocking chill.

  Everything had happened so fast that it took him a moment to sort it all out. Simon looked around in panic and struggled to catch his breath. He was four blocks from Terrace Row, just across from the Illinois Central Railroad trestle. Thousands of people waded calmly in the lake. Horses, still hitched to their wagons, were up to their necks in water.

  Simon tried to stand, but he found that he couldn’t. His injured leg wouldn’t support him. But he could still swim, and he could certainly tread water. Simon told himself that at least the lake was safe; it was the one part of Chicago that could never catch fire.

  Simon swam away from shore and tried to think of a plan. He was desperate to get to the North Side and make sure that Tommy was safe. He knew that the only way to get there would be by boat, and there were dozens of vessels floating nearby.

  Simon mustered up his energy and made his way to the trestle. He swam past the pilings and looked out at the open water. He waved to all the boats in an effort to get someone’s attention. At first there was no response, but then Simon noticed Fletcher Bingham in a sailboat. George Holbrook was with him, as were several other Chicago Club men.

  Simon waved his hands wildly, trying to make himself seen. “Fletcher!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Fletcher looked up at the sound of his name. He leaned against the gunwales and craned his neck around.

  “Right here!” Simon yelled. “Fletcher, I’m over here!”

  Fletcher saw him, and a sneer crept across his face. Then he turned his back to Simon and waved him away.

  “Fletcher, no!” Simon yelled. “You must not do this!” He tried to swim as quickly as he could, but the boat hove to and sailed away from the shore. “Fletcher, please— it’s Tommy— I haven’t seen him since the fire began— I don’t know where he is or whether he’s safe, and if something happens to him— Fletcher, please, you’ve got to help me—”

  Fletcher walked to the stern and shouted something at Simon.

  “What?” Simon asked. “I couldn’t hear you, come closer—”

  Fletcher cupped his hands around his mouth. The sound traveled a bit better, but Simon still couldn’t decipher it.

  “What?” Simon yelled.

  And then he heard Fletcher’s words. They were still hard to make out, but their gist was unmistakable.

  Fletcher was telling him to go rot in hell.

  IN FRONT OF TERRACE ROW, Michigan Avenue was clogged in both directions as the residents tried to save their things. Robert was helping Maria Scammon load books into a buggy. Deacon Bross was helping his family haul furniture across the street. Other residents were paying hack drivers to help move their possessions. James Hildreth debated whether to blow up the building, but when he saw Lillian’s expression, he decided against it.

  Lillian’s father was standing in the doorway with a bottle in his hand. He watched as she dragged their last remaining horse to their doorstep.

  “You cursed thing,” Lillian yelled to the animal. “You’ve nothing to fear, all right? Come!”

  “Lillian—”

  “I don’t wish to hear it,” she said. “You must go back inside and keep filling boxes.”

  “There’s no reason for all this commotion... I’m sure we’ll be all right.”

  Lillian walked up the front steps and had to restrain herself from slapping him. “Fathe’,” she said in an icy calm voice, “I don’t appreciate the way you’ve been acting. If you cannot make you’self useful, then pray get out of the way.”

  Andrist looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. “All right,” he said, then walked down the steps and continued across the street.

  Lillian glared. Then she swallowed, turned, and headed inside.

  Deacon Bross was with his daughter Jessie, loading up the express wagon that stood by their door. They brought out all sorts of valuable belongings, from chairs to bookshelves to old family heirlooms. Bross made sure to rescue his favorite painting, a farm and animal scene by John Frederick Herring. Jessie helped her father put everything in the wagon, and they tied down the items as quickly as they could. Then the driver whipped
the reins, and the wagon disappeared into the crowd.

  Bross took a deep breath. “How tremendous the relief,” he said. “Where did you find that man?”

  “What do you mean?” Jessie asked. “I first saw him when he pulled up at our door. I assumed you had hired him.”

  “Of course not. Then who did—” Bross stopped in mid-sentence when he realized what had happened. He looked down the street, but the driver was already nowhere to be seen. He swore as he realized how he’d been fleeced.

  Jessie pursued her lips. “I suppose we’ve seen the last of the Herring painting.”

  “Goddamn it all to hell,” Bross replied. For all his booming and boasting, he couldn’t believe it had come to this. His anger and frustration boiled up inside him, but he forced himself to keep his feelings in check. He looked back to Terrace Row, and he could see that the fire was approaching the rear stables. He headed up the front steps, praying he could salvage whatever was left.

  Bross had just reached the front door when he saw a man walking through the foyer. Bross cornered the man in the doorway. “My friend,” he said, “you have on a considerable invoice of my clothes, with the hunting suit outside.” The looter gulped, but Bross just shook his head and shrugged. “Well, go along. You might as well have them as let them burn.”

  JOHN DRAKE WALKED DOWN MICHIGAN AVENUE, carrying his suitcase full of Tremont House money. He was lost in thought as he sorted through his options. He walked past Terrace Row and looked up at the building. Faint clouds of smoke were wafting across the street, and the residents sat clustered along the lakeshore.

  Just south of the Row was the Michigan Avenue Hotel, which seemed unscathed at the moment. The Little Giant was posted in front of the building, but without a water supply, there wasn’t much the engine could do. The firemen wanted to draw water directly from the lake, but they hadn’t yet worked out how to do it.