The lion’s share of the blame, however, fell upon Catherine O’Leary. There was hardly any point in denying the story of her cow, for most of Chicago now accepted it as fact, and thousands of people were calling for revenge. “There is no use foisting the blame on the cow,” Colbert wrote, “for cows will kick when irritated, else they would not be true to their nature... The blame of setting the fire rests on the woman who milked, or else upon the lazy man who allowed her to milk.” The story of the cow and the lantern had many variations, but the idea was always the same, and Mrs. O’Leary was always the scapegoat.
What the city was just starting to realize— and what most people didn’t want to admit— was that the disaster had been waiting to happen for years. After all, the weather had been so dry, and so many fires had already broken out, that it was surprising that the calamity hadn’t happened sooner. Still, Chicagoans didn’t want to think about that, at least not for a while— for at that point, they had much more immediate problems.
REFUGEES WERE NOW TAKING UP RESIDENCE IN ROBERT LINCOLN’S HOME. Robert had been dreading his mother’s reaction, but to his great relief, she took it surprisingly well. In fact, when Mary met the refugees, her eyes seemed to light up for the first time in months.
Robert knew that despite Mary’s tics, the truth was that she had always had an empathetic soul. After her darling Willie had died, she had spent many days at Washington’s Old Soldiers’ Home, where she had helped comfort the wounded. No other First Lady had ever done such a thing, and Mary had done it largely outside the view of the press. But to Mary, it was almost therapeutic. Moreover, she knew firsthand the ravages of war, and she had always wanted to help others through it.
Robert stared out his window as he tried to work out a plan. Dozens of people were still wandering down the street. All sympathies aside, Robert knew his house could only hold a limited number of people. Part of him wanted to start turning people away, but his heart told him he couldn’t, for a multitude of reasons.
“It’s a sorry sight this day,” Robert said. “Lord have mercy on us all.”
“What?” his mother asked.
Robert heard another knock at the door. He closed his eyes and bit his lip. He hoped it wouldn’t be a large family. After a moment, he looked up, took a deep breath, and went to answer the door.
It was Lillian. She was wearing the same dress that she’d worn throughout the fire. Dried blood stained her sleeve, and her hair was stringy and hung across her face.
“Come in,” Robert said. “Good heavens, miss, you look terrible.”
“I feel worse than I look,” she replied. “I-I....”
“What is it?” Robert asked.
“I don’t wish you to think of me as a helpless little lady,” Lillian said.
Robert swallowed. He knew he’d said unflattering things about her in the past. “Why would I think that?”
“Well....” Lillian swallowed. “I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t have come to you, but you’ the only gentleman I know whose home has su’vived—”
“It’s all right, miss,” Robert said. “Let me see if my wife’s clothes might fit you.”
Mary stared at Lillian as she sat down on the couch. As soon as Robert was out of earshot, Lillian started to sob.
“Miss?” Mary said. “Are you—”
“No,” Lillian said as she tried to regain her exposure. “Well, at the moment, I’m....” She wiped the tears from her cheek. “I’ll be all right.”
A moment later, Robert came back with a full outfit of clothes. “These should be in roughly your size,” he said. “I assumed you’d want to change... well, that you’d want to change completely.”
Lillian nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
“You may change in our bedroom if you like. I apologize that there’s no one else to help you—”
“Oh, fo’ heaven’s sakes, no one thinks of propriety now,” Lillian said. “You needn’t pretend it’s a society gathering.”
Robert nodded. “Of course not.”
Lillian trudged up the stairs as if she were carrying the world on her shoulders. Robert looked back at his mother, who was observing the scene with wide eyes.
“What is it?” Robert asked.
Mary didn’t say a word. She just shook her head, turned, and went to help another group of refugees.
ONE MAN WHO DID KNOW ABOUT BURNED-OUT CITIES, and who had spent plenty of time in dire situations, was General Sheridan. He was experienced enough to know that in almost all cases, cities spiraled into lawlessness in much the same way. With the government in chaos and the police force stretched thin, looters and thieves would start coming out of the woodwork. Then, as things became more desperate, ordinary citizens would be forced to take up arms. Violence would break out, and all semblance of order would crumble. Sheridan knew how calamitous that would be, so he was bound and determined to prevent it.
The entire police force had been mobilized, except for the officers who had just lost their homes. The city had also approved the recruitment of five hundred volunteers to help keep the peace, in addition to four hundred fifty private security officers that had now come on duty. The city then learned that two hundred Norwegian immigrants had been keeping their own militia; their headquarters had survived, so they also went to work.
Still, Sheridan felt it would be wise to bring in regular army just in case. And so, that afternoon, he telegraphed Commanding General William Tecumseh Sherman. Sheridan requested five more companies of infantry, along with tents, blankets, and food. The Army replied that help was on its way, and that it should arrive within twenty-four hours.
With that, Sheridan felt his job was done. He told city officials that they could call on him if needed, and he unceremoniously went home.
AT THAT MOMENT, Robert was in his bedroom, lacing up Lillian’s corset. Robert couldn’t help feeling a little bit awkward; he had assumed that his mother would do this, but Mary was busy with someone else.
“Please tighten the bottom straps,” Lillian said. “They feel a bit loose.”
“Of course,” Robert said. “I must admit that I’ve never done this before.”
“Lacing a co’set, you mean?” Lillian asked. “If that’s the case, I haven’t had a man do it eithe’.”
Robert nodded. He mused that Lillian somehow made him think of his wife. He felt a brief pang of guilt that seemed to come out of nowhere; then, a moment later, he realized that Lillian was crying again.
“It’s all right, miss,” he said.
“No it isn’t,” she shot back. “It most certainly is not, I cannot believe this has happened—”
“Sh,” Robert said. “There there....”
“My fathe’,” Lillian said, “he was always grasping fo’ my approval, and I was always grasping fo’ his... we were even quarreling mere hours before his death, i-if only we could have reconciled, or at least resolved it some way— and now, it seems we’ll never have that chance—” And then she broke down in sobs.
“Listen,” Robert said. “I know there’s nothing I could say or do that could alleviate your pain... I shall never presume to know how you feel, but... well, I want you to know that you have my support.”
Lillian wiped a tear from her cheek, blinked, and looked into Robert’s eyes. An awkward pause followed.
“I assume you’ve nowhere else to stay?” Robert asked.
Lillian shook her head.
“Well, Robert said, “you may rest assured that you may stay here tonight.”
Lillian sighed. “Would that not be imprope’?” she asked.
“You said moments ago that you didn’t care about such things,” Robert said, “and after all, you wouldn’t be the only one staying under my roof.”
Lillian gulped down a lump in her throat. “I-I’m sorry for any— well, I know not what to say,” she replied. “I suppose I should say thank you, shouldn’t I?”
Robert smiled. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Lillian mov
ed forward, and before Robert had a chance to react, she put her arms around him. She clutched his body and pressed her head against his. Then she pulled back and looked into Robert’s eyes. Robert didn’t say a word. Lillian didn’t say anything either; she just turned around, sucked in her stomach, and waited for him to finish tying the corset.
SIMON, MEANWHILE, WAS STILL IN THE MIDST OF HIS REPORTING. Whenever he thought his job was done, he would meet someone else with a story to tell. He soon had infinitely more material than he could ever hope to use, but all the same, his instincts made him press on. By the late afternoon, his fatigue was finally starting to show. Then he found his last major story of the day.
Simon learned that W.D. Kerfoot, a top real estate agent, had already started to rebuild. Kerfoot’s office was in the midst of the ruins, just across from the Courthouse’s remains. But he, like many other businessmen, would not be deterred.
By the end of the day, Kerfoot had hammered together a makeshift place roughly fifteen feet wide. It was built on the rubble of his original building. It seemed a bit rickety, but as far as anyone could tell, the building was usable.
Before he opened his doors, he added one final touch. Kerfoot salvaged a piece of scrap and made it into a sign. He posted it above his door for all the world to see:
All gone but WIFE
CHILDREN and ENERGY.
And with that, he was open for business.
As Simon wrote up the story, he wanted to feel inspired— or at least encouraged— by what Kerfoot had done. But at that point, Simon’s overriding feeling was one of exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, and now he struggled to put one foot before the other. And so, as soon as he turned in his copy, Simon finally put an end to his day. He mounted his horse, clutched his nephew to his chest, and headed for what was left of his home.
A distinct chill rippled across Simon’s skin, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He buttoned up his collar as he urged the horse along. Simon wasn’t supposed to be on the streets after dusk, so many refugees cast a leery eye in his direction. Simon hoped the soldiers wouldn’t stop him, and that the beggars wouldn’t accost him. All he wanted at that moment was to be left alone.
When Simon reached Belden Avenue, he found the area deserted. He began digging through the mud, searching for something that might offer some shelter. After a few minutes, he found a piece of unburned cloth; he assumed it had once been one of his bedsheets, but it was so soiled that he couldn’t be sure.
Simon then salvaged two scraps of wood. He pounded them into the ground with all of his remaining strength, and he pulled the sheet over them to form a little lean-to. It was uncomfortable and grimy, and it offered no privacy. Still, it was a shelter, and that was all that truly mattered.
With that, Simon fell into the lean-to. He had no pillows or blankets, so simply laid on the ground with Tommy curled up by his side. Simon found himself dreaming of his father’s cozy inn, with its fluffy pillows and thick warm blankets, and his mother making cocoa in the mornings. He relished all of his memories, and he yearned to hold onto as much of his old life as possible. Still, as much as he longed for his family’s embrace, he didn’t want his parents trying to rush to his aid. He wanted to be with his friends, in particular with Lillian— for she seemed stronger than anyone else Simon knew.
A distant yell echoed through the air, followed by a bumping sound. Simon didn’t know what the sound was, but he didn’t care to find out. He just made himself as comfortable he could; then he closed his eyes and vowed to clear his mind.
Finally his exhaustion took over, and Simon fell into a badly-needed sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One: Chicago Shall Rise Again
“If the spread of the flames through the streets of Chicago was as swift as the wind, the spread of news, and the sympathy which it wakened, was infinitely more so... the heart of every man told him what to do at once.”
— Elias Colbert & Everett Chamberlain
BY WEDNESDAY MORNING, THE WEATHER HAD DECIDEDLY COOLED. The last humid remnants of summer were gone, replaced by a gray foreboding sky and an uncomfortable breeze. The muddy ashes had crusted over, and the remaining trees stood naked against the oncoming chill. But the men in the streets were as active as ever. The first shipments of building supplies were starting to arrive, and everyone was hopeful that all would soon be well.
Simon tried to hide his shivering as he went about his business. He and his nephew had no coats or jackets left, so they simply endured the cold in silence. Simon turned his collar up, jammed his fists in his pockets, and forced himself not to complain.
Simon made his way to Robert’s home. He felt a pang of jealousy at the thought that Robert hadn’t lost a thing. Then he felt guilty, for he knew that Robert had done nothing wrong. Finally Simon clenched his jaw, limped onto the porch, and knocked on the door.
Simon found Robert with his nose to the grindstone. Robert’s face was blank, and he wasn’t uttering a word, as he made breakfast for all the refugees. The family’s biggest pots and pans sat lined up on the counter, while Mary’s fine china sat helplessly in a cupboard.
“I need your assistance,” Simon finally said.
Robert didn’t look up from the stove. “Do you?” he asked.
“Indeed,” Simon replied. “I need to know how soon I may expect my insurance.”
“And you expect me to know?” Robert asked.
Simon paused. “W-well, you’re so closely associated with Scammon, and you do so much insurance work—”
“I wish I had an answer,” Robert said. He paused and looked up. “Listen, friend, if your home is also lost—”
“You needn’t worry about me,” Simon shot back, “or about Tommy, for that matter.”
“Shouldn’t I?” Robert asked. “I thought you were anxious for your insurance.”
Simon shook his head. He wanted to prove to himself— and to everyone else— that he could handle things on his own. “N-no,” he said. “Oh no, my home is simply damaged, we’re perfectly all right....”
Robert crossed his arms. “From the way you stand, you seem injured,” he replied.
“No, you must believe me, Tommy and I will be fine,” Simon blurted out. “If you wish to assist, you may keep him at your home while I work.”
Robert wasn’t satisfied with that, but he nodded. “Have you contacted your family?”
“No,” Simon replied. “I’ve had too many other concerns— and I’ve been told it’s nearly impossible to get through.”
“You’re probably right,” Robert said. “Nor have I yet sent word to my wife. I— well, I’m sure she knows what’s happened, her father is so close to the President....” Then he realized how ridiculous he sounded, and he didn’t say anything more.
Simon frowned as he caught a glimpse of Lillian in the parlor. He was especially surprised to see her in a green-and-white dress. Simon knew he’d seen that same dress on Mary Harlan.
“I need your assistance,” Robert said as he pulled Simon away. “I need you to carry these sausages to the table.”
“Now wait,” Simon shot back. “Why on Earth is Lillian here? I thought—”
“You needn’t think too hard,” Robert said. “She needs shelter like everyone else. Far be it from me to let personal desires intrude.”
“What personal desires?” Simon asked. “I mentioned nothing of the sort.”
Robert paused for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “The sausages are to your right,” he said.
“I see,” Simon replied. He chewed his lip, then walked over to the counter. “Listen, I—”
“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Robert said. “In fact, I would say that there’s nothing to discuss. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a prior obligation to which I must attend.”
Simon wanted to say something, but he didn’t want to make a scene. He just glanced over at Lillian, licked his lips, and carried the food to the table. Then he left Tommy behin
d as he stomped out the door.
THE WORKINGS OF THE TRIBUNE WERE NOW RUNNING LIKE CLOCKWORK. Sixty-five bundles of printing paper had come in from Saint Louis; the Aurora Beacon had offered the use of its printing facilities, and the Cincinnati Commercial had donated a font of type. Now, at long last, the Tribune’s landmark issue was finished.
The paper was only four pages long, the printing was scrappy, and the ads were simply little cards. The press couldn’t even print the Tribune’s own logo; the masthead had to be printed in generic block letters. But the paper was readable, and it would certainly sell, and that was ultimately what mattered. The headline simply read “FIRE!” in bold-faced type, with the subhead “Destruction of Chicago!” underneath, along with thirteen decks below.
Simon was fuming as he walked past the press. The other reporters were all marveling over the issue, and they boasted of the obstacles they’d had to overcome. Simon’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. He couldn’t help thinking that more trouble was coming.
Just then, the door slammed open, and Joseph Medill stormed into the room. “Damn this issue,” he was saying. “I thought it would never be printed.”
Simon snorted. At first, he didn’t pay much attention as his boss strode up beside him.
“The great tragedy,” Medill said, “is that all of this was so predictable. I fail to see why nothing was done.”
Simon looked up. Medill’s tone was demanding, as if he were admonishing his men for an error they’d made. “What do you mean?” Simon asked.
“I mean nothing,” Medill said, “but that someone will have to teach these bureaucrats a lesson. Now run along and do your job— for I daresay you’ve got some reporting to do.”
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