Chapin’s suitcase was blackened with soot, but he still clutched it to his chest. He heard the conductor yelling something, and then the engine blew its whistle. And then, with a heave, the train began to move. Hundreds of people were huddled along the tracks, and they wearily made way as the cowcatcher inched along the ground. Chapin looked out the window and watched the refugees’ faces go past.
After a minute he sighed and closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk of the wheels underfoot. He made himself as comfortable as possible, let exhaustion take over, and tried to get some rest.
LILLIAN TORE A CLEAN PIECE OF CLOTH FROM HER DRESS, and with it, she probed Simon’s calf.
“Ouch!” Simon yelled.
“Hold still,” she said, “and control you’self.”
“You’re only making it worse,” he shot back. “I cannot afford to be incapacitated— not at a time such as this.”
Lillian wiped debris from the wound. “Well, unfo’tunately there isn’t much that can be done about that. Do I seem to have a ready stock of bandages?”
Simon rolled his eyes.
“I thought not,” Lillian said. She turned to her right. “Fathe’, make you’self useful and hand me you’ bottle— if you haven’t quite emptied it on your own.”
Archibald Andrist didn’t respond. He barely looked in her direction.
“Fathe’, stop acting like a child, and give me the brandy.”
After a moment, Lillian scoffed, marched over to him, and pried the bottle from his hands.
Andrist barely tried to resist. “Lillian,” he said, “I have lost everything.”
“As have I!” she yelled. “How does that make you different from anyone else you see?”
Simon cleared his throat. “Lillian, I wouldn’t say this is the time, for you’ll say things you’ll regret—”
“Why is it that anytime a woman speaks he’ mind, she’s expected to regret it?” Lillian asked.
Simon put up his hands. “All right,” he said, “that’s enough. We’ve got plenty of problems without getting at each other’s throats. For heaven’s sakes, all this for a bottle of brandy?”
“Simon—”
“There will be a time for you to argue if you wish, but it is not now,” he said. “I wish only to recover to the point where I can go to my nephew.”
Lillian paused for a moment, then swallowed. She knew that Simon wouldn’t have a home to return to, but she couldn’t bring herself to say so out loud. She looked at her father, then looked back at Simon, then nodded. “All right,” she replied.
BY THE TIME THE FIRE REACHED BELDEN AVENUE, it was no longer a raging inferno. The front moved calmly from one building to another, and from one block to the next, as if the flames no longer had anything to prove. The blaze tore through the newly built homes and all the well-kept backyards. But there was no one to see it, since all the residents had fled.
The fire department was in shambles by then. Virtually all of the Little Giant’s crew had fallen ill, and the Long John was barely functioning. The Fred Gund lay buried underneath a fallen building. Eleven firehouses had burned, none of which had any insurance, and Marshal Williams’s eyes were so swollen that he was very nearly blind.
And so, when the fire reached Simon’s home, there was no longer any way to check it. At first the flames just nibbled at the walls, but then the wind picked up, and the fire gained strength. It made its way to the living room, where it fed on Simon’s bookshelves. Waverley and The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon were among the first books to go. As the mantle collapsed, the silver candlesticks vanished. Then the fire moved into the kitchen, where it blackened the remnants of Tommy’s shattered bowl. Finally the blaze swept up the stairs and enveloped the rest of the home.
None of Simon’s things stood a chance, as everything he’d worked for quickly went up in flames. The title to his house only took an instant to burn. His family photographs disappeared, and the letter from his long-dead brother— his most treasured possession— was reduced to a puff of smoke. The wind caught the ashes and carried them into the ether, leaving no remnants behind.
Three miles away, Simon stared quietly in the direction of his home. He had no way of knowing what was happening, so his imagination was running wild. He could only pray that Billy was keeping Tommy safe. Lillian did her best to lift Simon’s spirits, but she knew that nothing she said or did would have any real effect.
Robert, like everyone else in Chicago, was both physically and mentally drained. His face was blank, and he was too numb to feel much of anything. He trudged past his mother’s room and entered his bedroom. He stared at the bed that he had shared with his wife. Finally Robert collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, and he lay motionless on top of his blankets.
In Lincoln Park, Billy was still beside himself over his father. He stared off toward the south, where the flames on the Near North Side were still roiling. At first he assumed that everything was lost. But then, to his surprise, he saw the Water Tower emerge from the smoke. All of the surrounding buildings were gone, and the pipes had lain empty since the pumping station had burned. But the tower itself had barely a scorch.
Finally the blaze crossed Fullerton Avenue and reached the edge of the city. It was there that the fire finally made its last stand. It had ravaged the area so completely that there was no kindling left. The home of John Huck was the final building to go up in flames. Beyond was nothing but open field; the flames licked at the meadow but didn’t keep going. Slowly but surely, the Great Chicago Fire began to burn itself out.
And then, around eleven o’clock that evening, the long-awaited rainfall finally came.
PART III: THE NEW CHICAGO
Chapter Nineteen: A City in Ruins
“Amid such a general wreck... So many records were destroyed; so many people driven from the city... that it is practically impossible to cover every item in the immense aggregate of loss.”
— Elias Colbert
THE RAIN POURED DOWN AND RAN IN DRIBLETS ACROSS SIMON’S FACE. All around him, people were trying to survey the destruction in the pitch black of night. There was very little to see, since there was so little light in the burnt district. By four o’clock in the morning, most of the ashes had turned into mud, and only a few piles of coal were still smoldering.
“My God,” said Archibald Andrist as he surveyed the remnants of his home. “I wonder....”
“Wonder what?” Simon asked.
Andrist didn’t respond. He just rubbed his mustache and stared into the distance.
Simon tried to walk on his good leg. It wasn’t easy; he often had to hop on one foot, and he had to hold onto debris for support. He had only gotten halfway across the ruined building when he had to stop and rest. Then, as he tried to gather his strength, he noticed a shiny object beneath him. At first he thought it was just something wet; but then he heaved aside a timber and found a crystal pitcher underneath. The pitcher didn’t seem to be scorched, but it had warped and deformed in the heat.
“Look at this,” he said as he pulled the pitcher from the ashes. “At least it isn’t entirely lost—”
“You needn’t bother,” Andrist said as his eyes glazed over. “I don’t need that... not anymore.”
Simon nodded. He tried to read the expression on Andrist’s face, but he found that he couldn’t. Simon looked back at the pitcher and took a deep breath.
Lillian came to his side. “What is it?” she asked.
Simon didn’t answer. He just handed her the pitcher, and he watched her eyes glimmer as she held it in her hands.
“You know, of cou’se, that my mothe’ bought this,” she said.
“Did she?” Simon asked.
“Indeed,” Lillian replied. “She wished to have something nice, so she saved up all the money she could... and when she died... well, I’ve kept all of her possessions.”
Simon nodded. “Will you discard them now?” he asked.
Lillian turned i
t over in her hands. “No,” she said as a thousand feelings cascaded into her voice. “I would never fo’give myself.”
Simon paused for a moment, then wiped the rain from his face. He had a lot of things to say, but at that particular moment, he didn’t dare say them. As anxious as he was to get home, he knew it was too far to walk, and his leg was too badly injured. Simon would have to borrow the Andrists’ last remaining horse. He wanted to think that Lillian would let him take it, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.
A loud shot made them both jump. Lillian dropped the pitcher and scrambled over the ashes. Simon followed her as quickly as he could.
“Fathe’?” Lillian screamed. She saw Andrist’s crumpled body and dropped down beside him. The LeMat revolver lay in Andrist’s hand, and his hair was drenched in blood. It wasn’t hard to infer what had happened.
For a moment, Lillian seemed to panic, and she looked around in a frenzy. Then she swallowed and tried to recover her wits. She pressed her fingers against her father’s neck; she didn’t feel a pulse, and Andrist wasn’t breathing. She wiped her bloodied hands on the ground and choked down her tears.
“No, fathe’, don’t do this,” she cried. She cradled his head and ran her hands across his body, trying desperately to find a way to save him. “You haven’t lost everything,” she said. “You’ve still got me, you’ve still got you’self, you cannot give up....” And then she was lost in tears.
Simon didn’t know how to react. He had never imagined that he would see such a thing. He tried to stay calm, but his nerves seemed to tingle with shock. He knew without a doubt that there was nothing to be done.
Lillian screamed at her father for a moment, but then a wave of guilt overtook her, and she became sick with self-loathing. The pattering of the rain seemed to drown out her cries. Lillian’s strength and energy— which had always seemed so formidable— seemed to slowly melt away. Her whole figure seemed to shake, but then she lowered her head and crouched over her father’s body. Andrist’s blood poured out across the ground, flowed past Lillian’s feet, and mixed in quietly with the mud and the water.
THE SUN ROSE OVER A TRANSFORMED CITY AS THE RAIN TAPERED OFF. As daunting as the ruins were at nighttime, the sight was overwhelming in the cold light of day. Block after block after block was destroyed. Giant clouds of smoke were now drifting through the city, and bits of debris were blowing through the streets.
Simon looked out at the sunrise glittering over the lake. Rays of light were dabbling across the waves, revealing several boats that remained out in the water. A handful of dead blackened trees still stood at attention. Otherworldly sounds seemed to echo across the landscape: children were crying, the injured were moaning, and burned-out walls were falling over in the wind. Simon wanted to shut out the horrors around him, but he knew he couldn’t do it.
Lillian was so distraught that she couldn’t speak clearly. Simon stayed with her as long as he could; he tried to keep her calm, and he flagged down one of Sheridan’s soldiers. He answered the soldiers’ questions, then watched them load Andrist’s body onto a wagon. Then he constructed a makeshift splint for his leg, and at long last, Simon set off on his miserable journey home.
Simon’s route took him straight through the carnage. In many places, the ruins stretched from one horizon to another. Thousands of people were walking across the debris, but they were dwarfed by the sheer size of the ruins, so they looked like ants crawling over the landscape.
Simon found himself getting disoriented. With the usual landmarks destroyed, he struggled to keep track of which street was which. Many routes were simply impassible; most of the river’s bridges were destroyed, so Simon had to take the LaSalle Street Tunnel instead. He couldn’t believe that his gleaming new city was now unrecognizable. Simon heard people predicting that Chicago would never recover; he himself didn’t want to believe that, but he knew the city’s outlook was grim.
The burnt district stretched from the O’Leary barn to Lincoln Park, from Jefferson Street to the lake. All three of the city’s divisions were now in disarray. The North Side was by far the hardest hit, since it had been directly downwind from the flames. Only a handful of its buildings had survived, mostly factories along the river and stone structures like the Water Tower.
The South Side hadn’t lost nearly as much land, but it was gutted all the same. Almost everything north of Harrison Street— including the entire downtown area— was gone. All of Chicago’s major office buildings had burned, as had its great stores, theaters, ballparks, and other attractions. And the worst of its slums had disappeared without a trace.
Ironically, the West Side was the most intact part of the city, although thousands— including the O’Learys— were left destitute nonetheless. The Saturday blaze had in fact saved a large swath of land; its rubble had acted as a firebreak, which turned out to be the only barrier that the Great Chicago Fire failed to cross.
In all, two thousand one hundred twenty-five acres had burned, which was more than double the area of the Great Fires of Rome, London, and Moscow combined. Eighteen thousand buildings were destroyed, and roughly one hundred thousand people were left homeless.
Simon felt his panic rising as the horse neared Belden Avenue. He knew, even from several blocks away, that he had lost nearly everything. But he wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing his home, which he had helped build with his own hands, reduced to rubble. Simon felt as though he’d been punched in the gut, as though all his hard work had been for naught. He let out a yell, braced himself with his good leg, and scrambled off the horse. He was breathing so quickly that he began seeing stars, and he had to struggle to keep from blacking out. Simon half-crawled, half-ran across the wreckage, and his nerves were so worn out that he almost didn’t feel the pain in his calf.
He raced to what had once been Tommy’s room. The structure was so badly mangled that Simon couldn’t recognize any of the debris. The house did have a few intact walls, but the roof had burned away and the floor was unstable. A tangle of burned timbers now lay where the staircase had been. Simon started digging through the ruins, but he was so anxious that he couldn’t focus on his task. After a minute, he pulled himself to his feet and limped to what had once been his parlor. He tried to find the front door, and he hoped to find some evidence as to whether Tommy had fled. But when he found the door, he realized that it couldn’t offer any clues. Then he searched for footprints in the mud, but he couldn’t find a thing.
“Tommy!” he yelled. “Tommy, where are you?” He looked in all directions, hoping against hope that he’d see movement. But the only figure he saw was his neighbor.
“Quiet down,” Dyer said. “It ain’t any use to be yelling for him now.”
Simon limped across the lot. “Mister Dyer!” he said. “Mister Dyer, you must help me, please—”
“What?” Dyer asked. “Sonny, do I look like a detective?”
“But please, if you’ve seen him— or if you have any inkling as to where the boy might have gone—”
“I don’t know,” Dyer said.
“But Mister Dyer—”
“Sonny, I don’t know, check the park, all right?”
“Th-the park?” Simon asked. “W-well, yes, you’re right... I should have thought of that myself—” And then he stopped in mid-sentence, pulled himself onto his horse, and rode off.
LILLIAN SAT MOTIONLESS as the Reverend John H. Brown, Lizzie’s husband, led a prayer for the dead.
“My soul is among lions,” he was saying, “and I lie even among them that are set on fire, even the sons of men, whose teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a sharp sword. Be thou exalted, O God, above the heavens; let thy glory be above all the earth.”
Lillian blinked and looked around. She was sitting in a temporary morgue. The coroner had taken possession of a livery stable, and dozens of burned corpses had been laid out on the floor. While Rev. Brown led his prayers, the police allowed a handful of viewers to pass through
the building. But thousands of people were converging on the site, creating a long, slow-moving line that snaked up Milwaukee Avenue. Many viewers carried pictures of loved ones, along with lists of scars and birthmarks and other identifying details.
Lillian looked into the others’ eyes, and she could see how shocked they all were. Most were unprepared for the gruesome sights before them. The victims came in all shapes and sizes, ostensibly from all walks of life. Toe tags showed where the bodies had been found. Many corpses were so badly incinerated that that they weren’t recognizably human. In some cases, the heat had caused the trapezius muscles to contract, causing the bodies to arch backward into grisly unnatural positions.
The building itself was almost eerily quiet. Plain wooden coffins lay stacked up in a corner. The morgue staff was working tirelessly but uttered nary a word. Everyone was silent and respectful despite the overwhelming stench. Periodically everything would stop as firemen brought in newly recovered bodies. It was anyone’s guess how many corpses still lay buried in the rubble.
“Miss?” came a voice.
Lillian turned and saw Rev. Brown by her side. She didn’t say a word.
“Are you all right?” the minister asked.
Lillian did her best to keep a stiff upper lip. After a moment, though, her grief welled up inside her, and she began telling Rev. Brown how she felt. She had nowhere to go and no idea what to do.
Rev. Brown listened quietly. Other men might have sought to reassure her, and might have recited a platitude about how “God has a plan.” But he made no attempt to do any such thing.
“My dear child,” he said when she finally quieted down, “you must let out every fear. It is all right to cry.”
Lillian paused. “Who spoke of crying?” she asked.
“Indeed,” he replied, “you must come with me.”
ROBERT CHEWED HIS LIP AS HE STARED OUT HIS BEDROOM WINDOW. He had just gotten a few precious hours of sleep. Inside the house, things seemed deceptively normal: his wife’s music box sat atop her dresser, and all the family photographs hung in their usual places. A claw-footed table stood in the corner, topped with a vase of white chrysanthemums. But outside, countless refugees were now wandering down the street. It broke Robert’s heart to see them; they migrated southward in a slow but steady stream, and each person seemed more miserable than the next. Robert wanted to reassure them, and he wanted to open his home to any person in need.
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