1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Robert took a deep breath and headed down the hall. “Mother,” he said as he knocked on Mary’s door, “you must open up. We need to clear all the space we can manage.”

  Robert cracked the door open and peered into the room. Mary lay curled up in bed amidst a tangle of blankets.

  “Mother?” Robert said.

  Mary didn’t answer. She was so worn out that she had slept straight through the morning. Robert sighed; maybe, he thought, he shouldn’t let in refugees after all. He didn’t want strangers to see her in such a state, and he didn’t want her to have to cope with the stress.

  It was then that he heard the first knock at the door. He was tempted not to answer it, but his conscience forced him to respond. And so he took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

  As Robert crossed the foyer, he saw a pile of papers on the floor. He suddenly realized that he’d left the Insanity File in plain view for all to see. Robert felt immeasurably guilty about the whole affair, but he didn’t have time to worry about it; he just threw the papers in a closet and opened the door.

  Billy Holbrook was standing on the porch with Tommy at his side. “Have you seen my father?” were the only words Billy could utter.

  Robert frowned and shook his head. He was about to ask why Tommy was there, but then he realized that he already knew. “I’m sorry,” Robert said. “I last glimpsed Mister Holbrook at the Chicago Club. I haven’t the faintest idea what has happened to him since.”

  Billy’s face showed no discernable reaction. He had gotten the same answer, or an answer very much like it, from nearly every person he had spoken with that day. Nowhere in Chicago could people find each other quickly; there was no good place to meet, or even to exchange information, so the searches for loved ones had become long and terrifying ordeals.

  Robert’s heart sank as he saw Tommy start to cry. Tommy was nearly the same age as his daughter, and Robert still hadn’t managed to send word to his wife. He wanted to reassure his family that he was all right, and that his home had survived; but at that moment, there was no way to do so.

  “Don’t cry, child,” Robert said. “You’ll find your uncle, I’m certain.”

  Billy snorted. “Anything’s possible,” he said.

  SIMON, MEANWHILE, WAS ALSO LOSING HOPE. He was fervently searching in the old Milliman tract, but he had not found a single person he knew. All the same, Simon kept riding his horse through the crowds, canvassing every last corner of Lincoln Park. He saw many things that he would have once considered shocking; some refugees were badly burned and disfigured, while others were openly defecating on the grass. Simon was so distraught that he thought nothing of it. He was focused on one thing only, since Tommy was the only one who mattered to him now. He was operating out of sheer and utter panic; he knew his energy was about to give out, but he couldn’t bring himself to slow down.

  Simon forced himself to think that he might not see Tommy again. For a brief moment, he debated how he might break the news to his family; but the thought was so disturbing that he had to think of something else. And so he coaxed the horse forward, and he called out Tommy’s name, and he silently prayed that it wouldn’t all be for naught.

  AT THE CITY’S SOUTHERN EDGE SAT THE THIRTY-FIRST STREET PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was well outside the burnt district, so it had been pressed into service as a badly-needed shelter. The church bell, which had rung happily over so many weddings and holidays, was now tolling for the city.

  Dozens of families had taken up residence in the nave. Church members were bringing whatever clothes and blankets they could spare. Parents slept in the pews while their children roughhoused in the aisles. The men hadn’t shaved, and the women hadn’t groomed, but Rev. Brown was trying to provide for them all.

  Lillian knew she looked haggard, but she was too tired to care. She had just taken a seat when Lizzie Brown came to her side. “Rest yourself, dear child,” Lizzie said. “You seem as pale as a ghost.”

  Lillian nodded. “I feel so,” she mumbled.

  “May I bring you anything?”

  “Well,” Lillian said, “I’m in no state— that is, I—” She clasped her hands together. “I should like a cup of tea.”

  Lizzie blinked. Lillian saw a strange look in Lizzie’s eyes. “Y-yes, of course,” Lizzie said. “If you would pardon me for a moment—” Then she turned and scurried away.

  Lillian glanced to her right, where she saw her reflection in a window. The scars of her ordeal were already etched in her face: she had bags under her eyes and wrinkles on her forehead, and she seemed years older than she actually was. As Lillian gazed at the reflection, she couldn’t help noticing that she had her father’s eyes. She had always known that, of course, but she had never given it much thought. Now, after all that had happened, she kept thinking of herself as his daughter.

  Lizzie returned with a cup of tea in hand. Behind her, Rev. Brown was ladling out bowls of soup. Lillian found herself following the food with her eyes, since her stomach was far emptier than she cared to admit. When Lizzie handed her the teacup, Lillian didn’t think to be courteous; she just gulped down the tea, and after that, she devoured a bowl of soup. The food was not particularly good, at least by any normal measure, but Lillian didn’t care. To her, it all tasted divine; she savored the texture of the food in her mouth, and she felt a satisfying full stomach for the first time in days.

  “I’m sorry,” Lillian said when she realized how she looked. “I didn’t mean to create a spectacle.”

  Lizzie shrugged. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

  Lillian licked her lips but didn’t make eye contact. As grateful as she was, she still had no place to stay. She wanted to ask the Browns to take her in, but she decided she couldn’t. The church was crowded already, and she was sure their house would be full.

  “Miss?” Lizzie asked.

  Lillian looked up as an idea came to her head. She knew that Lizzie was related to the Lincolns, and she knew where Robert lived— and she knew that his neighborhood lay untouched by the fire.

  “Are you all right? Is there anything I might do?”

  “No,” Lillian said, “you can do nothing. I must handle myself on my own.”

  BY THREE O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON, Billy had been to the site of Terrace Row, as well as that of the Chicago Club, but he’d come up empty-handed. The only person he’d found was Deacon Bross, who directed him back to the North Side. Simon, meanwhile, had asked around in Lincoln Park, and a refugee had introduced him to Billy’s mother. Then, at long last, Simon, Tommy, and Billy found each other again.

  “Oh thank heavens,” Simon gasped as he limped across the ground. “Tommy—”

  “Simon!” Tommy cried. He scampered across the open graves, through a patch of mud, and into Simon’s arms. The boy was sobbing, and even Simon had to fight to keep his composure.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” Simon gasped. “Thank God. I... I had no idea— didn’t know what— oh, I’m so glad—” He was so relieved that his body was shaking, and his breath came out in short bursts. He clutched his nephew for a moment, then looked up at Billy. “How is he?”

  “I think he’s all right,” Billy said. “He was in his room when I found him.”

  “Found him?” Simon asked. “What do you mean?”

  Billy’s face jumped. “Nuthin’,” he said.

  Simon looked back at his nephew and saw that his face was streaked with tears. Tommy whimpered quietly and pressed his face into Simon’s shoulder. “There there,” Simon told him as he rocked back and forth. He was so relieved to see the boy that he couldn’t say much else.

  “Was scared,” Tommy whimpered.

  “Of course you were,” Simon replied, “as was I. But we’re safe now.” He wanted to say that everything was all right, and that nothing would happen to them, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

  Simon slid to the ground and felt the cold mud seep into his clothing. His splinted leg was now b
urning with pain. He patted Tommy’s head and wished he could make the boy stop crying. For minute the two sat quiet and unmoving; then Simon looked up at Billy. Simon had so much going through his head that he found it difficult to form a complete sentence. “H-how have you fared?” Simon finally asked.

  “I dunno,” Billy said. “Same as everybody else, I reckon.”

  Simon nodded.

  “I-I prob’ly ought to give you this,” Billy said as he pulled the straw horse from his pocket. The toy was wet and crumpled, and two of the legs were broken, but Simon recognized it immediately.

  “Thank you,” Simon replied as he took it into his hand. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t muster the strength. Finally he gave up and leaned back against a timber.

  Billy didn’t know what to do, so he simply backed away. Simon didn’t react; he was too exhausted and distraught to give Billy any thought.

  How long he sat there, Simon didn’t know. Nothing seemed real at that moment. He felt as if all the horrible events were happening to someone else. Simon wanted nothing more than to escape: to run from his problems, to run from the disaster, to run from all of the things that had ruined his life. It would be so easy to give up, he thought, and for a moment he was tempted to do it.

  But then, seconds later, thoughts of his family came flooding into his mind. He thought of his old life in Rhinebeck, which had been so pleasant and safe but no longer seemed real. Part of him regretted having come to Chicago, but another part insisted that he’d made the right choice.

  Simon knew there was no way to undo what had happened. His youthful ambition was gone, replaced by an ironclad will to survive. His blue eyes narrowed as he gathered up his nerve. Simon raised his head, and with a final burst of energy, he pulled himself to his feet.

  “Come on, Tommy,” he said. “This is no time to be feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  Tommy coughed and wiped his eyes. He didn’t say a word.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll have to get through it,” Simon told him. “This isn’t going to beat us— not while I still have breath in my lungs.” His tone was tough and pitiless, and he was bracing himself for whatever other torments might await. He knew of many things that he now had to do. Finally Simon took a deep breath. And without another word, he took his nephew’s hand and hobbled away.

  Chapter Twenty: All Gone but Wife, Children, and Energy

  “Chicago has always been bent on beating the world in everything— she has done it again now. She has had the most destructive fire ever known.”

  — Chicago Tribune

  ONE OF THE CITY’S LIFELINES, the telegraph office, was slowly getting on its feet. Western Union had found a small office on Clark Street. It was makeshift at best, and the equipment had to be jerry-rigged; but as the operators set up the machinery, the keys quickly sprang to life. Messages were flooding in from all over the world.

  The news, it seemed, had spread in record time. In Cuba, the city of Havana was already collecting donations. In France, the front page of Le Temps reported that “Chicago est brûlée.” In Ireland, thousands of family members were struggling to reach their loved ones. In Scotland, Queen Victoria was holed up in Balmoral Castle, exchanging telegrams with Prime Minister William Gladstone.

  Within the United States, the news had spurred a veritable frenzy. In Boston, thousands flocked to Faneuil Hall to help organize relief. Milwaukee schools and businesses were closed as the city loaded up supply trains. Even San Francisco’s impoverished Chinese gave all the money they could spare. Saint Louis assembled more than eighty tons of provisions, while Philadelphia raised a hundred thousand dollars in an hour. The New York Stock Exchange set up a fund of its own, and wagons fanned out across Manhattan to collect food and clothing. Politicians everywhere were pledging to help: Ohio Governor Rutherford B. Hayes had committed his state to the effort, as had governors Lucius Fairchild of Wisconsin, Henry Baldwin of Michigan, Gratz Brown of Missouri, and Sam Merrill of Iowa. President Grant was meeting with Secretary of War William Belknap. Trains from Cleveland, Cincinnati, Memphis, and Nashville were all converging on Chicago.

  But the effort was so massive that it couldn’t possibly run smoothly. No one had yet worked out a way to distribute the relief, and it was impossible to say where the greatest need might be. And so, as the first provisions came in, the government either left them at the train stations, or sent them haphazardly across the city. Crowds of people appeared wherever there seemed to be food to be had. Misinformation and confusion abounded. Mayor Mason tried to get it all sorted out, but he only had so many resources, all of which were being stretched to the limit. And it was anyone’s guess when order might be restored.

  SIMON CROUCHED ALONG THE LAKESHORE and washed his face as best he could. He couldn’t get the grime out of his hair, and he couldn’t change out of his sweaty clothes, but he felt marginally better with a clean face and hands. He wanted his nephew to clean up as well, but he couldn’t get Tommy to venture near the water. Simon was too exhausted to argue, so he let the boy have his way.

  Off in the distance, Simon could see Billy reuniting with his father. George Holbrook was stumbling along the shore, having undoubtedly survived a harrowing ordeal, and his family was swarming around him. Simon watched the spectacle in silence; then he looked at his nephew, clenched his jaw, and limped to the horse.

  He lifted Tommy into the saddle. Simon couldn’t put much weight on his knee, so he couldn’t mount the horse in the usual way; he had to grab the reins and awkwardly pull himself up. Then he heard a voice call his name. He turned and saw Billy running toward him.

  “He’s safe!” Billy said. “What glorious news— my father’s all right!”

  Simon was too tired to feel much of anything. He gave a polite nod. “I’m happy for you,” he said. “I-I hope....” But then his voice trailed off, and he didn’t finish his sentence.

  “What is it?” Billy asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Simon replied. “I meant nothing.” He pulled himself into the saddle and put his arm around his nephew. “I must go.”

  And with that, Simon whipped the reins, and the horse trotted away.

  JOSEPH MEDILL WAS COPING WITH HIS LOSSES IN HIS USUAL STOIC MANNER. He had been searching for buildings that might temporarily house the Tribune. He knew he had to move quickly; countless surviving businesses now needed a place to stay, so they were snapping up what little office space remained.

  Medill found what he needed on Canal Street, in an unassuming building just outside the fire’s reach. It was just blocks away from the burned-out downtown, so for the Tribune’s purposes, it was perfect. Medill found the building’s owners and signed a lease on the spot.

  His next step was to locate a press. The office did contain some machinery, along with forms and type, but it wasn’t enough. Medill gathered as many pressmen, printers, and reporters as he could; his men found an unused Taylor press and bought it just ahead of several other local papers. Medill then struck a deal with the Evening Journal, in which the Journal could use the press in the daytime while the Tribune printed its issues at night. A newly homeless man painted a sign in exchange for food, and with that, the Tribune’s name appeared above the door. Then, at long last, Medill started handing out assignments.

  Simon, for his part, was determined to immediately get back to work. He didn’t have to do that, of course, but he was intent on distracting himself from his loss. Despite all that had happened, Simon didn’t want to feel sorry for himself. He was desperate to make himself useful, and to create some semblance of normalcy. And so he began his reporting, albeit with Tommy in tow.

  Simon’s work did help to lift his spirits. He found it much easier to fret over everyday matters— whether he’d interviewed the right people, asked the right questions, and found the best angles— than to dwell on his loss. He found himself able to work out his frustrations, and as he did that, all of his pains— right down to the pain in his leg— seemed to melt away.

  Sim
on was hardly alone in his feelings. Deacon Bross, for example, had also lost everything but had also reported to work. Bross had helped clear all the junk from the building, and now he was searching for more equipment and supplies. G.P. English, Elias Colbert, and George Upton had also rolled up their sleeves and were hard at work that day. There was so much news to report— and so few reliable sources to be found— that the Tribune’s whole staff was working itself to the bone.

  Simon was trying to find the cause of the fire, which was a great deal easier said than done. The only indisputable fact was that the blaze had ignited inside the O’Leary barn; exactly how or why it ignited, no one seemed to know. The rumors were now growing into elaborate tales.

  Some blamed the fire on the Mormons, who had been exiled from Illinois some twenty-five years before; the story claimed that Brigham Young and his followers had now taken their revenge. Others blamed anarchists and socialists who wanted to “humble the men who had waxed rich at the expense of the poor.” The rumors alluded to the recent Paris Commune, and to the chaos that had resulted in France. But in the end, none of the stories made sense. After all, the fire had started in a working-class neighborhood, and no one could explain why a socialist would want to burn “proletariat” homes.

  One of the more bizarre stories blamed fire-extinguisher salesmen. The story claimed that three men had hawked their wares to the city government. When the politicians failed to bite, the salesmen had supposedly tried to teach the city a lesson. One man was quoted as saying that “we have tried our best to do something for Chicago, she has kicked us out, and now she may bear the consequences.”