1871

by Peter J Spalding

  BY THAT NIGHT, JOSEPH MEDILL HAD ALREADY DISPATCHED DEACON BROSS TO NEW YORK. Medill knew that Bross could be invaluable in the rebuilding process: he was famous for strumming up money and support, so if he played his cards right, then he could send Wall Street investors flocking to Chicago in droves.

  But Medill knew that wasn’t enough. He knew he’d have to deliver a rallying cry of his own, and true to form he was using the Tribune as his mouthpiece. His latest editorial was now rolling off the press:

  REBUILD THE CITY.

  All is not lost. Though four hundred million dollars’ worth of property has been destroyed, Chicago still exists. She was not a mere collection of stone, and bricks, and lumber. These were but the evidence of the power which produced these things; they were but the external proof of the high courage, unconquerable energy, strong faith, and restless perseverance which have built up here a commercial metropolis. The great natural resources are all in existence; the lake, with its navies, the spacious harbor, the vast empire of production, extending westward to the Pacific; the great outlet of the lakes to the ocean, the thirty-six lines of railways connecting the city with every part of the continent— these, the great arteries of trade and commerce, all remain unimpaired, undiminished, and all ready for immediate resumption.

  What, therefore, has been lost? We have lost the accumulated profits of twenty years of prosperous growth. We have lost the stock in trade on hand on the night of the fire. We have lost money— but we have saved life, health, vigor, and industry.

  We have a dozen grain elevators yet remaining. We have the material on hand with which to replace those which we have lost. We have, within 36 hours’ time, the whole country to draw upon for supplies of every description of goods. In two weeks from the date of the fire our merchants can fill almost any order for merchandise that may be sent them. The credit of Chicago is saved. When the whole country has faith, and hope, and confidence in us, there will be no depression in Chicago itself. The wholesale trade of the city can be resumed at once. Temporary warehouses are being erected, and business resumed.

  Let no trouble be borrowed from the past. All the losses of the fire, will in time be passed into the great clearing house, and the payment of balances will be made easy for everybody. Rich men have become poor; the accumulations of years have been destroyed; but no one will waste time crying for spilled milk. Labor will be resumed. Production will be restored, and the general trade and commerce of the city will at once be resumed.

  Let us avail ourselves of the liberal spirit which the country has shown in our calamity. There are no relentless creditors pressing us for payment, foreclosing mortgages, or demanding the full measure of their bonds. On the contrary, the world is asking us to take money— unlimited credit, and go ahead, leaving the past to be taken care of in the future, when Chicago shall have resumed her power and glory.

  Let the watchword henceforth be: CHICAGO SHALL RISE AGAIN.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Martial Law

  “Who is General Sheridan? Is he some imperial satrap...? Who gave General Sheridan the authority to put muskets in the hands of a parcel of crack-brained college boys?”

  — Chicago Times

  COUNTLESS SOLDIERS WERE NOW CAMPED OUT IN LAKE PARK. It was a veritable tent city, and it was constantly growing as more regiments arrived from Louisville, Fort Leavenworth, Omaha, and Fort Hays. So many men had arrived that the city was letting them build temporary wooden barracks. The ruins of Union Depot stood quietly nearby, while the White Stockings’ ruined ballpark lay covered with debris.

  In many ways the sight was oddly familiar. Many of the soldiers had fought in the war, so they knew what to expect in a disaster. They now slept on the ground, cooked rations over campfires, and held drills nearby, much as they had done a few years before. But the soldiers’ mission was now very different, for they were there to protect the people, not suppress them. It was horribly clear to everyone that the fallen city was not Atlanta, Vicksburg, or any other Confederate stronghold, but the epitome of the Yankees’ own drive and ambition.

  Despite the military buildup, Sheridan still saw his troops being stretched to the limit. As wires kept coming in, he learned that the disaster was much larger than he’d thought. The drought and high winds had affected a half-dozen states, so Chicago was only one of many places to be crippled by fire. Just west of Minneapolis, a blaze had lain waste to Minnesota’s Meeker, McLeod, and Carver Counties. In Michigan, much of the Saginaw Bay area had been flattened, and similar blazes had broken out in Indiana and the Canadian province of Ontario.

  Peshtigo, Wisconsin, had suffered the worst fire of all. Peshtigo was just a small village, but it had many close ties to Chicago: among other things, its sawmills had supplied the lumber used in the city’s tinderbox construction.

  The disaster had struck Peshtigo with terrifying speed. Small fires had been smoldering around Green Bay for days, but when the winds picked up Sunday night, the blaze had virtually exploded. At a quarter till nine in the evening— at roughly the same time the O’Leary barn had caught fire— a hundred-foot-tall swath of flame swept into the town. Most villagers didn’t have time to react. Survivors saw their friends and family members enveloped in flames, and they were forced to hear bloodcurdling screams. Herds of cattle went into a panic, causing a stampede that crushed many villagers as they ran for their lives. Tornadic funnels whipped through the air, lashing out like snakes and tossing bodies as if they were toys. A few sought shelter in the Peshtigo River, but they had to struggle against the fast-moving currents, and the air was so hot that many had their lungs burned from the inside. The blaze feasted on the lumber piles intended for Chicago. Then the flames jumped a dozen miles across the waters of the bay, and they ravaged Door County on the opposite side.

  The sheer size of the fire was staggering, as it was many times larger than the one that had burned through Chicago. An estimated two thousand people were killed— the exact death toll was never known— and Peshtigo itself was thoroughly wiped away. The destruction was so complete that it had taken nearly three days for the news to get out.

  As the reports trickled into Chicago, the city struggled to make sense of what had happened. The news seemed to get worse every hour, with little or no end in sight. Governments at each level— from local to federal— were struggling to reach all the burned-out areas. Men swore never to let any such thing ever happen again. But that was a great deal easier said than done, for in truth, no one had the slightest idea what to do.

  SIMON WOKE LATE THURSDAY MORNING TO THE SOUNDS OF MARCHING FEET. He looked out the window and saw a line of infantry coming up Wabash Avenue. The men wore blue Union uniforms and carried bayonets. They matched past the window in perfect synchronization as their leader shouted out orders. Simon bit his lip, since he didn’t quite know what to think.

  “I suppose we’re at the mercy of the General now,” he said as he stumbled downstairs.

  Robert and Lillian were sitting at the dining room table. “We are indeed,” Robert said.

  Simon scratched the back of his neck. He struggled to keep his feelings to himself; in truth, he didn’t want to see Robert and Lillian sit together. “Well,” he said, “at least you should be all right.”

  “What do you mean?” Robert asked.

  “You’re quite close to the General, are you not?”

  “Listen,” Robert said, “I never wished for special treatment, either from Sheridan or from anyone else. And even if it were offered, I would not accept.”

  Lillian stared toward the window. “Those men will make things quite difficult for us,” she said. “Just you watch.”

  “What do you mean?” Robert asked.

  “My fathe’ probably sold those men every unifo’m in their ranks,” Lillian said. “The stories he could tell....” But then she stopped in midsentence.

  “It cannot be so bad,” Robert said.

  Simon didn’t say a word. He wanted to believe what Robert was saying, but he di
dn’t knew if he should.

  Simon heard something behind him, and he turned around to see a young man enter the room. The man had just finished shaving, and he was now buttoning up his vest. Simon knew he was too well-dressed to be a fire refugee.

  “Simon,” Robert said, “I don’t believe you fellows have met. This is my old friend John Hay; he’s just arrived from New York. John, you’ve heard me speak of Simon—”

  “How do you do,” Hay replied. “You must excuse my appearance, I’ve barely had time to freshen up.”

  “You needn’t be so fussy,” Robert said.

  Hay ignored him. “Mister Caldwell is the reporter, correct?”

  “I suppose so,” Simon replied. “Why, what has Robert told you?”

  “Nothing,” Hay said, “but I’d appreciate your help. I must scoop the other papers, and the New York Herald already has two men in the city. If I fail, Horace Greeley will surely have my head.”

  Simon’s eyebrows went up. He had heard of Greeley’s presidential ambitions, and he began to get a sense of opportunities to be had. “Y-yes, of course,” he replied.

  Robert recognized the look in Simon’s eyes. “Now wait,” he said. “Simon, might you excuse us for a moment?”

  Simon looked at Lillian. “Surely,” he replied as he stepped out of the room.

  Hay frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “You needn’t give him ideas,” Robert said. “The last thing we need is a snoop in our midst, especially when Mother— I mean, if she is—”

  “I don’t believe he’s a snoop,” Hay replied. “I’m a journalist too—”

  “Yes, well, you’re not one of them,” Robert said. “You may spend your free time writing poetry, but I guarantee you Mister Caldwell does not.”

  Hay shook his head. “Why are you so afraid?”

  “Afraid?” Robert asked. “I most certainly am not—”

  Hay looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve seen you enter this state before,” he said. “You’re still in mourning, are you not?”

  Robert licked his lips. “Perhaps,” he said. “I grieve for my mother as well as for Tad.”

  “But your mother is still alive.”

  Robert nodded. “I suppose,” he replied.

  SHERIDAN HAD SET UP HIS HEADQUARTERS DOWN THE STREET FROM ROBERT’S HOME. The surrounding blocks housed temporary offices for innumerable companies: Massachusetts Mutual, Washington Life, and Connecticut Mutual were all bringing in adjusters from all over the country. In addition, Union National Bank, First National Bank, and American Express had all set up emergency operations. None of those companies were yet open for business, but they were all busy assessing the damage.

  Sheridan stared out of his window and surveyed the activity outside. Signs were sprouting up in windows and lawns. Many burned-out shopkeepers had opened stores in their homes; they set up displays in their living room windows, and they enlisted their maids to work as clerks. Sheridan rubbed his mustache as he took in the scene.

  “Sir!” came a voice. “The governor is here to see you.”

  Sheridan nodded. He and John Palmer had known each other for years; the two had served together at the Battle of Chickamauga and had shared a bond ever since. But now, Sheridan feared that the men could get in each other’s ways. “Why is it,” he asked, “that politicians are drawn to disaster like flies to a corpse?” He turned in his chair and sighed. “Go on. Let him in.”

  Palmer barged through the doorway as if he owned the building. “Good day, General,” he said. “I came as quickly as I could. I have called the legislature into emergency session— but I must say, the men in Springfield can scarcely imagine this sight.”

  “I should hope that’s the case,” Sheridan said. “It’s no sight anyone should ever have to see.”

  “How fares the city?” Palmer asked.

  Sheridan wanted to roll his eyes, but he kept his military poise. “No case of outbreak or disorder has been reported,” he said, “and the people of the city are calm, quiet, and well disposed.”

  “Very good,” Palmer said. He didn’t bother to ask further questions, and he assumed that the troops would soon be disbanded.

  What Palmer didn’t realize was that Sheridan was now in control of the city. At that point, the governor had no inkling of anything amiss— but he would later regret having jumped to conclusions.

  SIMON HAD NOW LEFT TOMMY AT ROBERT’S HOUSE and was working with John Hay. The reporters’ jobs were now harder than ever, and it was nearly impossible to get Hay’s dispatches out. The telegraph office was overwhelmed with messages, and it would take many days for it to work through its backlog. Simon tried to secretly send out a few words, but the telegraph operator caught him and refused to play along. With so many lines still down, Western Union couldn’t let any special dispatches through, not even for the mighty Horace Greeley.

  Simon, however, was not about to give up. As tired as he was, his passions and his drives were still alive and well. Any sensible reporter would have killed to work for Greeley, and Simon was no exception. He was determined to make a good impression, if not on Greeley, then certainly on Hay; for he was certain it would reap dividends in the end.

  “You know,” Hay said, “if you have other things to do, you needn’t stay with me all day—”

  “I’ve nothing to do but work,” Simon replied. “I cannot rebuild until my insurance funds arrive, and in the meantime I cannot bring myself to wait idly.”

  “Very well,” Hay replied.

  “Imagine— I was to be meeting with John Chapin this week. We were going to be railing against corruption, which seemed so noble at the time, but well— the fire seems to have changed that.”

  Hay shook his head. “Oh believe me, the corruption is still there. The fire cannot destroy everything— and the old Chicago ring is not so easily defeated.”

  “It isn’t?” Simon asked. “I would think that at a time such as this—”

  “Oh no,” Hay said, “if only it were that simple. As for myself, I do not believe in the easy reform of the government. Human nature will prevent that among us for many a long year. Think of that herd of wild asses’ colts in Congress. What can you expect of a people which chooses such rulers, and likes them best when they are most sonorously asinine?”

  Simon nodded. “You should say that to Mister Medill,” he replied. “He has such a disdain for the petty nature of it all—”

  “Oh I agree, Medill is quite an intelligent man. Why Robert won’t listen to him, I don’t know.”

  Simon looked up. “What do you mean, Robert won’t listen to him?”

  “Oh, you mean he hasn’t told you?” Hay asked. “Medill has attempted to persuade him to run.”

  Simon leaned back. “Is that so?” he asked. “Run for which office— the mayor’s?”

  “I don’t know,” Hay replied. “He could likely serve in any office he chose. His sole obstacle is that, no matter who his opponents, he will always have to compete with the memory of a dead man. And he knows it is so.”

  “Now wait. Surely you don’t mean to dismiss his father as just another dead man—”

  “Oh no,” Hay said. He stepped aside to let a telegram delivery boy past. “I know how great of a hero he was. I knew it better than anyone, perhaps even more so than Robert himself. It was I, not Robert, who had my bedroom in the White House. And when the President couldn’t sleep, he would converse with me in the middle of the night.”

  “He did?” Simon asked.

  “Oh yes,” Hay replied. “Robert spent most of his time at Harvard, or on the front lines themselves.” He leaned back and listened to the buzz of the telegraph. “I do not truly know if it is fair to have him burdened so, but such is the state of affairs... and there is nothing that any of us can do about it now.”

  ON THE OTHER END OF THE TELEGRAPH LINE, Deacon Bross was busy whipping audiences into a froth. “Go to Chicago now!” he yelled. “Young men, hurry there! Old men, send your sons! Women,
send your husbands! You will never again have such a chance to make money!”

  The New York papers were flocking to his side, and they carried his boosterism across the East Coast. And it seemed to have an effect, as fundraising drives began to pick up. President Grant donated a thousand dollars of his own money, and donations kept coming in from all over the country. Train after train kept arriving in Chicago.

  Some of the aid was unnecessary, or even downright bizarre. The Ohio Female College sent sixty suits of ladies’ underwear, which was at least marginally useful. But others sent ballroom gowns, theatrical costumes, and lavender gloves, which were of little or no use at all.

  The government, moreover, was still struggling to manage the effort. The city had established a General Relief Committee headed by Fifth Ward alderman Charles C.P. Holden. The Committee had opened all surviving public buildings to refugees, and carpenters were building two hundred temporary shelters. But the city had no experience in relief efforts, and it hadn’t set up any safeguards to protect against fraud. The Committee struggled to handle the mobs of people that were coming to them for help.

  On Friday, Mayor Mason took the matter entirely out of the government’s hands. He turned over all contributions to the city’s largest charity, the Relief and Aid Society. “The regular force of this society is inadequate to this immense work,” Mason wrote in his proclamation, “but they will rapidly enlarge... and I call upon all citizens to aid this organization in every possible way.”

  Still, as large as the aid effort was, there were limits to the nation’s generosity. Southerners felt that the fire was comeuppance for the destruction that Chicagoans had wrought in the war. They hadn’t forgotten Sheridan’s scorched-earth tactics in the Shenandoah Valley, and they knew that many Chicagoans had marched with Sherman to the sea. One man offered a hundred free bales of hay to Mrs. O’Leary’s mythical cow. Another man wrote that “I feel a deep interest in the misfortunes of your city and would fain to help you all I can... and yet, do you know, we owe it— some of my friends and I— to the implacable temper of Chicago troops, during the war, that we are now exiles, impoverished and struggling, far from the sepulchers of our fathers and without a single heirloom sacred to past affections spared us. It was a Chicago soldier who threw into the flames the likeness of my mother, and tearing a box of literary memorabilia from the person who held it, consigned the box to the same flaming bed.”