1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Drake suddenly thought of an idea. He remembered Fletcher Bingham’s risk-taking and the money it had made him. Drake had never wanted to gamble his livelihood, but if there was ever a time for it, then this was it. Drake licked his finger and stuck it in the air. The wind was still blowing toward the north— away from the hotel— which meant that the building would likely survive.

  Drake walked in the door and strode to the empty reception desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can the building’s owner be found?”

  Proprietor Joseph Ullman peeked out of his office. “I’m busy,” he replied.

  “I understand that,” Drake replied, “but I have a business proposition that I’d like you to consider.”

  Ullman frowned. “What do you want?”

  “Well, sir, I would like to buy your hotel.”

  “Buy?” Ullman said. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Drake shook his head. “I’m willing to pay a thousand dollars to secure your building and furniture, with a promise to pay the remainder of the price within two weeks.”

  Ullman reluctantly stepped out of his office. A thousand dollars was a good price under the circumstances, but it seemed almost too good to be true. “What have you not told me?” he finally asked.

  “I have told you everything,” Drake replied. “It’s really quite simple. If the building burns, you keep the thousand dollars. If it survives, I will return and pay the building’s full market value within two weeks. Either way, you win. Shall we draw up the papers?”

  Ullman hesitated at first; then Drake opened the suitcase to prove he wasn’t bluffing. Ullman immediately gaped at the bundles of money.

  “All right,” Ullman finally said, “it’s a deal.”

  Drake smiled, flipped the cap off his pen, and drew up the agreement. Within a few minutes, the contract had been signed. Without twitching an eye, Drake counted ten bills of a hundred dollars each, and he laid them out on the counter. Then he shut his suitcase and stuffed the papers in his pocket. “I will return in a few days, and until then, best of luck.”

  Drake was nearly at the door when Ullman pointed at Terrace Row. “It cannot be stopped,” Ullman said. “You’ve lost your thousand dollars. I’m telling you, this building will go next.”

  Drake put his hand on the doorknob. “That remains to be seen,” he replied, then walked out the door and disappeared down the street.

  ON BELDEN AVENUE, Simon’s house stood quietly while the neighbors scrambled to save their own things. Dyer had retreated northward and was now loading up another one of his wagons. A blast of wind came up, carrying with it a cloud of airborne soot. Dyer squinted with his good eye and tried to shield his face; his glass eye, however, stared straight ahead as always.

  Dyer was anxious to get out of there, since it was only a matter of time before the fire enveloped the neighborhood. He considered leaving his real estate records to burn, but then he changed his mind. He was loading the papers into his wagon when he heard the sound of breaking glass. Dyer looked back and realized that the sound had come from his house.

  “Hello?” Dyer said, but he didn’t receive a response.

  He reached into his wagon and pulled out a rifle. Dyer shouldered the gun as he marched to the side of the building. There he saw a looter trying to climb in the window.

  Dyer knelt on the ground, peered through the sights of the rifle, and aimed at the looter’s head. “Step away, sonny,” Dyer said.

  The looter jumped and looked around. At first he seemed tempted to defy him, but then he put up his hands.

  “I’m leaving,” he said.

  “I daresay you are.”

  The looter took a few steps back, then tripped on a tree root. He stumbled but recovered his footing, and he scrambled toward Simon’s house next door.

  THE HOLBROOK FAMILY ENTERED LINCOLN PARK FROM THE SOUTH, where the remnants of the cemetery were still visible. People huddled inside the exhumed graves, and they tried to protect their things by shielding them with their bodies. The upended tombstones formed shelters from falling debris.

  Billy was struggling to think clearly. His horse simply followed the others as they sought shelter in an oak grove. There seemed to be nothing to do but wait. The clouds were darkening overhead, but Billy didn’t know if they truly signaled rain, or if they were just dark from the smoke.

  Around him, dozens of people were sharing the latest news. With communications broken down, no one truly knew what was happening, so rumors and lies were often accepted as fact. Some spoke of looters “like vultures in search of prey,” while others spoke of incendiaries being hanged from downtown lampposts. The city’s firemen were said to be drunks, and damsels in distress were said to be jumping from burning buildings.

  Billy didn’t know what to think of the stories. He suddenly remembered having left Tommy home alone, and he realized that Simon’s house was now fairly close by. Billy assumed that someone— presumably Simon— had come to rescue the boy, but considering the night’s events, he didn’t want to take anything for granted. Billy was nearly beside himself with regret; from what others were saying, it sounded as if looting and violence were widespread.

  Billy looked around at his family. His mother was trying to get news of his father, but she didn’t seem to know where to go. Billy’s sisters were fretting over a neighborhood cat, while his brothers were in such shock that they just stared at the ground.

  Billy looked to the west, where the German neighborhoods were burning. Then he turned back to his family, took a deep breath, and licked his lips.

  “I’ll be back,” Billy said to his mother. “There’s something I gotta do.”

  “What?” she asked, but Billy didn’t respond. He had already turned his horse around, whipped the reins, and rushed away.

  LIZZIE, MEANWHILE, HAD LIT A FIRE OF HER OWN, and now she was heating a kettle on the woodburning stove. She poured the hot water into a teapot, then added the right amount of tea leaves. Finally she crushed Mary’s pills and sprinkled the powder into Mary’s cup. Lizzie made sure to use as little of the drug as possible, since she didn’t want her cousin to take too much by mistake.

  By the time Lizzie emerged from the kitchen, Mary seemed to be uttering nonsense. Lizzie didn’t say a word as she set down the tea set. She made sure to keep the strainer on top of Mary’s cup; she didn’t want Mary to see the powder inside. It wasn’t the proper way to serve tea, of course, but Lizzie hoped her cousin wouldn’t notice. Besides, she thought, propriety was now the least of her concerns.

  Lizzie poured the tea, then waited a moment for the powder to dissolve. Then she pulled up the strainer, handed Mary her cup, and made a second cup of tea for herself.

  “You must drink it,” Lizzie said. “It will make you feel better.”

  “Better?” Mary said. “I have suffered so deeply that this is hardly a trifle, if that— not in comparison to the great sorrows that have made me a broken dispirited woman.”

  Lizzie fidgeted a bit. “You are not a broken woman,” she said. “You will lift yourself from these depths. We all will.”

  “No,” Mary said. “The same evil spirits that afflicted me, they remain at work to this day. I have fever upon me, with great and burning pain in my spine, with no one near me to hand me a glass of water— if I was dying—”

  “Sh,” Lizzie said. “Drink your tea, and you shall feel better.” For a moment she feared she had been too blatant, and she thought Mary might catch on. But then Mary took a sip, and Lizzie felt a hint of relief.

  Mary kept on rambling, but slowly but surely her intensity subsided. Lizzie didn’t know if it was due to her exhaustion, or her medication, or a combination of both; but whatever the reason, Mary was finally quieting down. Lizzie was too upset to feel any relief. She only hoped that the fire would stay far away from the house, since Mary was in no condition to evacuate.

  At that point, Lizzie could no longer handle the strain. She calmly excused herself and headed upstairs. As soon as she
was out of earshot, she erupted in tears. She allowed herself to let out all of her anger, anxiety, and guilt. After five minutes of crying, Lizzie cleared her throat, wiped away her tears, and took a deep breath. Then, when she was ready to face her cousin, Lizzie headed back to the parlor.

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK MONDAY MORNING, the remnants of the O’Leary barn had stopped smoldering. The fire in that area had largely burned itself out. At first, the O’Learys thought they were strangely fortunate. The blaze had lain waste to all the surrounding buildings, but the O’Leary house itself had survived. But that, it turned out, was a mixed blessing at best.

  Hundreds of people were now flocking toward the site, since they all wanted to see where the fire had started. They saw the O’Leary house sitting awkwardly by itself, surrounded by acres upon acres of ruins. In the background, a massive smoke plume was still billowing up as the fire kept tearing through other parts of the city.

  It didn’t take long for the crowd to get unruly. The O’Learys became the object of every imaginable hatred: nativists targeted them for being Irish, while militant Protestants targeted them for being Catholic. Vandals threw stones at their house, forcing the O’Learys to board up the windows. People climbed onto their roof and snooped around their yard, effectively trapping the O’Learys inside. The tale of the cow and the lantern had taken on a life of its own; Catherine was being portrayed not as a hardworking wife and mother, but as a hag, with a scowl on her face, a wart on her nose, and a general contempt for humanity.

  And that was just the beginning. Both Patrick and Catherine had lost their livelihoods to the fire, and their tenants, the McLaughlins, had already decided to move. The O’Learys were left with no income and no insurance, yet they still had seven mouths to feed. And they had no idea what they were going to do.

  SIMON SWAM ALONG THE BASE OF THE TRESTLE, heading south. Every stroke required new energy; all of his muscles were sore, and his left leg was burning with pain. His face was sweating heavily, but the rest of his body was shivering underwater. Behind him, Union Depot was beginning to burn, and firebrands were hissing as they fell into the lake.

  Simon kept worrying about Tommy, and he kept trying to figure out how to get home. He knew he couldn’t swim all the way to the North Side, so if Fletcher wasn’t willing to take him by boat, then Simon was left with very few options. He would have to circumnavigate the fire, which would likely be a three- or four-mile journey. As exhausted as he was, he had no idea how he could do such a thing, but he swore to himself that he’d have to find a way.

  Simon had never felt so desperate or so helpless. He wanted to scream in frustration, but he didn’t. He had to stop himself from thinking too hard; he was starting to realize how much he had to lose. With the Tribune in ashes, he would likely lose his job, which could cost him his home even if the fire didn’t get to it first. And heaven only knew what might happen to Tommy.

  Simon forced himself to stop that line of thinking. He shook his head and realized he was approaching Terrace Row. Simon could see Robert standing in the street, along with a wagonful of Scammon’s belongings. Lillian, meanwhile, was standing chest-deep in the water. She clutched the reins of her horse as she tried to keep the animal calm. Her father was sitting at the foot of Congress Street, drinking brandy from the bottle. The manservant was quietly watching the building burn.

  “Lillian!” Simon yelled. He tried to say something more, but a wave splashed against his face, and he had to spit out a mouthful of water.

  Lillian saw him but didn’t reply. Behind her, Terrace Row was on its last leg. Smoke billowed out of each window and door, and flames were visible throughout.

  Simon forced himself to keep swimming until his feet touched the lake bottom. He tried to wade through the water, but his injured leg was too weak. He propelled himself forward on his good leg, but as he approached Lillian, his energy gave out. His foot slipped, and he fell down face-first.

  Simon pulled himself up and went to Lillian’s side. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine what was going through her mind, with so many of her keepsakes and memories going up in flames. Simon heard a deep thud as a wall collapsed, and a shower of sparks floated up toward the sky. A blast of smoke erupted from the Andrists’ front door; the cloud rose and floated over the lake.

  Robert, meanwhile, had retreated to the Michigan Avenue Hotel. Deacon Bross and his family were trying to stay calm, but Mrs. Scammon was speechless. Robert offered to open his home to whomever needed shelter, but no one took him up on the offer. Robert sighed and realized there was nothing else he could do. He just nodded, turned, and headed south toward his home.

  Then, slowly but surely, Terrace Row began to collapse. It was a slow process, and it gave off a hellish rattling sound. Simon and Lillian watched as the top floor crumbled; then the third floor fell, then the second floor followed, and finally the ground floor disappeared into the rubble, leaving only parts of the building’s skeleton intact.

  And then it was over. Lillian and Archibald Andrist were homeless, and Simon strongly feared that he’d soon meet the same fate.

  Chapter Eighteen: The Fire’s Last Stand

  “All Monday the fire raged through the ill-fated North Division... emotions had run down, as a clock, neglected by its keeper, stops for lack of winding. The index had stopped at the figure of despair!”

  — Elias Colbert & Everett Chamberlain

  AT ONE-THIRTY IN THE AFTERNOON, Robert finally stumbled into his house. The fire was no longer spreading on the South Side, so he knew his home would survive; but at that point he was too exhausted to feel any sort of relief.

  He dropped his things and rushed the last few steps to his mother. “Thank heavens you’re safe,” Robert said. “I was so frightened for you—”

  “She was perfectly all right,” Lizzie said.

  Mary looked up at Robert. She barely had the energy to put her arms around her son. “My boy!” she said. “You’ve returned—”

  “Of course I’ve returned,” Robert said. He felt tears running down his cheek, and he couldn’t tell if they were her tears or his. “I always would, come hell or high water.”

  Lizzie cleared her throat. “It seems you’ve already taken care of hell,” she replied.

  Robert frowned. He thought that was an odd thing to say, but at that moment, it didn’t seem to matter. He looked at his mother. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “Are you awake?”

  Mary gave a halfhearted response, then curled up on the sofa cushions.

  Robert turned to Lizzie. “Has she been this way all night?”

  “N-no,” Lizzie said. “She was awake for hours.”

  “The poor thing,” Robert said. “She must be as tired as I.” He gathered up his last few bits of energy, then took a deep breath. “Come, let us help her to her room.”

  THE FIRE MOVED THROUGH THE NORTH SIDE MORE QUICKLY THAN ANYWHERE ELSE; at one point it devoured eleven blocks in an hour. By that point, however, the residents had had time to prepare. They had packed their things and carted everything to safety. Families dragged plate-glass mirrors into the streets, along with everything from throw rugs to china. A few even buried furniture in their yards; they had to work for hours, but they saved many a valuable item.

  It was in the midst of all this that Billy ran to Simon’s porch and knocked on the door. “Mister Caldwell!” he yelled. “Mister Caldwell! Are you in there?”

  He grabbed the doorknob and shook it, but the door was safely locked. Billy looked up and sighed. He assumed Simon and Tommy had already left.

  After a moment, he turned and headed back toward his horse. Then, as he climbed back into the saddle, he heard something fall inside the house. At first Billy thought he was hearing things; but as he looked more closely, he saw a curtain move.

  Billy already had the reins in his hand, and for a moment, he debated whether it might be better to stay or to leave. Finally his instincts got the better of him. “M
ister Caldwell?” he said again.

  Billy dismounted slowly and walked back to the porch. He put his hand against a window and peered inside. He saw the shards of a bowl, with globs of oatmeal scattered about. A fallen chair was lying on the ground.

  “Blast it,” Billy said as his mind started drawing conclusions. He looked to his left, and he saw a shattered window in C.V. Dyer’s house. Billy began to worry; if someone had broken into Simon’s house, he thought, then there was no telling what might have happened. Finally Billy swallowed and took a deep breath.

  He kicked at the door until the lock finally gave way. The door swung open and slammed against the wall, but inside, the house was silent. The only sound was the buzzing of a fly. The oatmeal was drying and starting to smell; Billy knew that the spill must have been there for at least a few hours.

  Billy picked up a shard of porcelain and held it like a knife. He tiptoed across the floor and tried to deduce if a looter was nearby. He stepped into the living room, but he didn’t see anything amiss. Simon’s favorite books were still arranged neatly in their shelves, and not even the silver candlesticks had been moved.

  “Hello?” Billy said. “Anybody in here?”

  There was no reply. The house creaked on its frame as a cloud of smoke blew past. Suddenly Billy heard a scratching sound, and he spun around—

  — but it was just a sycamore branch scraping against the window.

  Billy let out his breath and tried to ease the tension in his body. He put his hand to his chest and closed his eyes. Then he heard a wooden creak overhead, as if someone had just shifted his weight. Billy opened his eyes and headed up the stairs. For a moment, he thought someone was watching him from above, but he looked up and couldn’t see anyone. He heard a shuffling noise, and his grip tightened around the shard. He felt a distinct lump in his throat, and he gulped it down quickly.