LILLIAN STOOD BY THE RIVERFRONT BEHIND HER FATHER’S BURNED FACTORY. She held a container full of Archibald Andrist’s cremated ashes. There were no urns to be found, so instead, she had used the pitcher that she had salvaged from the rubble.
Lillian knelt down and scattered the ashes in the river. The powder floated atop the sluggish water, then mixed in with other bits of floating debris. Lillian waited until the pitcher was empty; then, in a fit of anger, she threw the pitcher in as well. She grabbed the revolver that her father had used, and she looked across the river at where Conley’s Patch had once been. Finally she looked down, dropped the revolver into the water, and watched it sink away.
ROBERT ALREADY SAW MORE TROUBLE BREWING. His insurance-company clients were showing up at his door, and he was sifting through the papers that he and Fuller had saved. The records were full of arcane details about loss costs, capital reserves, combined ratios, and other such statistics.
Robert rolled up his sleeves and plunged into his work. He was trying his best to forget his larger problems. Among other things, he had already let Billy go, since Robert could not afford to pay him. Billy begged and pleaded, but Robert didn’t have a choice.
“I hired you to help take care of my family,” he had said. “Currently the only person who needs care is my mother— and it is my duty to care for her myself.”
“But sir—”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Robert had said.
Robert tried to tell himself that he’d done the right thing, but in truth, he now doubted himself more than ever. He knew the Holbrooks had nowhere to go. Robert wanted to offer them shelter, but his house was too full.
Now, as Robert stared at the papers, he rubbed his face with his hands. Finally he swallowed, tried to set his guilt aside, and started going through the files.
MARY, MEANWHILE, HAD DEVELOPED ANOTHER FIXATION. She was embarrassed to have so many people marching through the house, since she didn’t think it was the slightest bit presentable. She was now scouring the upstairs closets; she hoped to find decorations and cleaning supplies, but she found only clothes, blankets, towels, and the like. After sneering at the designs, Mary headed downstairs.
She was searching through another closet when she found a bundle of papers. Mary recognized her own handwriting at once. She frowned and pulled the bundle out of the closet. “Robert!” she yelled. “What the devil is this?”
Robert felt a pang of fear as he heard the tone in her voice. He immediately knew that the worst must have happened. He rushed downstairs to find his mother seething with anger.
“You have betrayed me!”
Robert felt a tightness in his chest. “I-I have done no such thing,” he replied.
“Then how may such a thing be explained?” She held up a packet of papers. “An ‘Insanity File,’ you call it? What the devil is the meaning of this?”
“Now wait, you must allow me to explain—”
“No,” she snapped, “you, who make no concessions to the mother whom you have so cruelly and unmercifully wronged!”
Robert heard a noise, and he turned to see that Simon and Hay had just stepped in the door. “Oh no Mother,” Robert said, “now you needn’t make a scene—”
“Make a scene?” Mary yelled. “I have drank so deeply of the cup of sorrows, in my desolate bereavements, and that you will be a temperate man, is the boon for which I daily kneel. And now— oh my goodness— silence and agonizing tears are all that is left!”
Robert glanced at his friends and tried to shoo them away. But Simon just stared, and Hay refused to budge. “Now Mother, listen,” Robert said as he burned with chagrin.
“I shall not listen to your invective,” she snapped. “Insane, am I? Who raised you from a babe—”
“I have never denied such a thing—”
“And you!” Mary yelled as she pointed at Hay. “You are behind all of this. You’re the one who always deemed me a hell-cat—”
“Mrs. Lincoln, I am behind nothing,” Hay replied.
Robert turned to Simon. “Help me, friend,” he said, “you know the truth, you must help calm her down—”
“What am I to say?” Simon asked. “I know nothing of this.”
Robert jumped forward as he saw his mother swoon. Mary fell into Hay’s arms, and the papers flew in all directions. Simon couldn’t help but roll his eyes.
“Mother—”
“Do not call me your mother,” Mary cried. “You were so different from my other sons— you were always persecuting them and your father so tender and loving— he always said he never knew from whence such a mean nature came. I am so isolated from the world— I am never prepared for such things and I sometimes wonder if it is not well for me to anticipate them!” And with that, Mary broke down in sobs.
Robert didn’t know what to say. He was horrified at the sight of Mary’s tears, and he felt sick over what he had done. He looked up at his friends.
Hay pulled Mary to her feet. “Mrs. Lincoln,” he said, “perhaps you and I should speak in private.”
Robert didn’t say a word. He just watched as Hay put his hand on Mary’s shoulders and led her up the stairs. Robert exchanged glances with Simon; then Simon bowed his head, put on his hat, and limped out the front door. Mary’s cries seemed to echo through the house; Robert didn’t know who else had overheard, but he was too distraught to worry about it.
A moment later, Hay returned to the foyer to see Robert grabbing the sheets off the floor.
“What are you doing?” Hay asked.
“I should have burned these when I had the chance,” Robert said. “But it is never too late to do what we must.” He strode toward the fireplace and eyed the flames inside.
“Robert, no,” Hay said as he grabbed hold of his arm. “If you do something rash, you’ll regret it forever.”
“I shall regret nothing,” Robert said, “except for the fact that I have delayed this too long.”
“Your mother had a purpose when she sent you those letters. They are a record of her thoughts, her desires— and her words shall survive when even she is long gone.”
“Such is all the more reason to destroy them,” Robert said. “I do not wish them to land in the newspapers, or in the hands of anyone with prying eyes.”
“Give them to me,” Hay said. “You do not wish to do this.”
“You needn’t tell me what I want,” Robert said.
“All the same,” Hay replied, “you must hand them over at once.” He held out his hand and looked into Robert’s eyes. Robert looked back with an indefinable expression.
Both men stood motionless for a moment, until finally Robert swallowed hard. He threw the file into Hay’s hands, then turned and walked away. “There,” he said. “Let us never speak of this again.”
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Death Room
“I have taken the advice of one or two of my friends in whom I trust most, and they tell me I can do nothing. It is terribly irksome... The greatest misery of all is the fear of what may happen in the future.”
— Robert Todd Lincoln
MARY SPENT THAT NIGHT TOSSING RESTLESSLY IN BED. All of her anxieties were now bubbling to the surface. She was convinced that her son was conspiring against her; she let off a litany of cries, and she even pleaded for death to come take her away. Visions of an institution kept flashing through her mind. She saw straitjackets, padded cells, and dangerous patients. She imagined screaming men locked in cages, and orderlies dressed in white. Then she saw doctors coming toward her, and the walls closed in around her—
Mary let off an unnatural shriek. Her eyes snapped open, and she woke in a cold sweat. She held her hand to her head for a moment, then started to cry.
Mary wanted badly to recover from Tad’s death. She thought she’d been doing fairly well, since the other people in need had given her something to live for. But now she’d lost the one person she had left, or at least so she thought. She wanted desperately to commiserate with Lizzie, but she
hadn’t heard from Lizzie at all, and she didn’t know why.
After a moment, Mary pulled herself together and reached for her nightstand. She opened a drawer and picked up a small black envelope, which bore the British royal seal. Mary stared at the envelope for a moment, then took a deep breath and re-read the letter inside:
Dear Madam,
Though a Stranger to you I cannot remain silent when so terrible a calamity has fallen upon you & your country, & must personally express my deep & heartfelt sympathy with you under the shocking circumstances of your present dreadful misfortune.
No one can better appreciate than I can who am myself utterly broken hearted by the loss of my own beloved Husband, who was the light of my Life— my stay— my all,— what your sufferings must be; and I earnestly pray that you may be supported by Him to whom Alone the sorely stricken can look for comfort in this hour of heavy affliction.
With the renewed expression of true sympathy, I remain, dear Madam
Your sincere friend
Victoria
Mary put down the letter and wiped her hands across her face. She imagined how Queen Victoria must be spending her days, with all of her palaces, jewelry, and ladies-in-waiting. Many couldn’t help remembering how she had once lived in that world herself. After all, as First Lady, she had hobnobbed with world leaders for years, and she had served as a role model for thousands of women. Now, just a few short years later, she was a groveling mess. Mary couldn’t bear the thought of such an ignominious fall from grace.
“Ma’am?” came a voice.
Mary looked up and saw John Hay peeking in from the hall. She wanted to wave him away, but she didn’t.
“I heard your cries,” Hay said as he stepped into the room. “Are you all right?”
Mary tried to restrain her grief. “I must see my son,” she replied.
“He’s already left for the day,” Hay said. “He had an early meeting with Scammon.”
Mary chewed her lip. Part of her didn’t want to see her son at all, but another part did. Finally she sighed and turned her face away. “I little supposed, one year since, that I should be so brokenhearted. Without my beloved idolized family, life is only a very heavy burden, and the thought that I should soon be removed would be supreme happiness to me.”
“You haven’t lost your family,” Hay said. “You’ve still got your son.”
Mary shook her head and tried to allay the trembling in her hands. “M-my son thinks me crazy.”
Hay blinked. “He thinks no such thing,” he replied.
“He does indeed,” Mary said. “And he now wishes to put me away.”
Hay bit his lip for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Mrs. Lincoln,” he said, “you must listen to me. Robert loves you with all his heart. So he always has, and so he always will. Can you not see how badly he wishes to provide for you... and how badly he wishes to make it all right?”
Mary didn’t answer. She just started to cry. Hay sat down and tried to comfort her a little, but he couldn’t help feeling awkward. He and Mary had never truly gotten along, so he didn’t know what to say.
Mary’s sobs became louder, and she collapsed onto the bed. Hay chewed his lip as he thought of the Insanity File. He had to admit that he didn’t trust Robert to keep it safe. He was tempted to hide the letters where Robert would never find them; but he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. He knew there had to be a different solution, and he tried to think of what it might be.
ROBERT’S CLIENT JOHN DRAKE WAS ONE OF THE LUCKIEST MEN IN CHICAGO. He had put a deposit on a building that had been all but certain to burn, and everyone had thought he was crazy. But now, as he walked into the still-standing Michigan Avenue Hotel, he knew he’d had the last laugh.
The hotel had been across the street from Terrace Row, so it had escaped the flames by a hairbreadth. Only a few diligent firefighters, and the waters of Lake Michigan, had saved the hotel from a fiery demise.
Drake had wired New York for a loan, and now he was carrying the building’s purchase price in cash. Without so much as a blink, he marched into the lobby and plopped his suitcase on the counter. Ullman looked at him but didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Here is your money,” Drake said as he opened the suitcase and flashed him several large bundles of cash. “Shall we close the deal?”
“What deal?” Ullman asked. “This building is no longer for sale.”
“That’s not what you said Monday,” Drake replied. He pulled out a few papers that had been organized and bound. “Is this your signature?” he asked as he pointed to one of the lines.
“Yes,” Ullman said. “What difference does that make?”
“Well, it means, sir, that you agreed to sell me a thousand-dollar option on this hotel, which means that I have the exclusive right to buy it, and you cannot back down from that agreement.”
Ullman shook his head. He now owned the only major hotel still standing in Chicago, and he was doing a brisk business with all of the insurance adjusters, journalists, and work crews flooding into the city. “I will not sell,” he replied, “and there is no law that can make me. I suggest you turn around and march out of my lobby, and you may take your suitcase of money on with you.”
Drake bit his lip. He drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment; then he nodded, turned, and walked out of the lobby.
ROBERT, AT THAT MOMENT, WAS MEETING WITH SCAMMON and sorting out his finances. Scammon’s face went blank as he began to realize how much he had lost. The Marine Bank, the Mutual Security company, and the Historical Society were all now in shambles.
“I’m sorry,” Robert said. “I wish I had good news to share. But you are essentially broke— and that, I’m afraid, is the undeniable truth.”
“M-my God,” Scammon said. “Is there nothing we can do?”
“I don’t know,” Robert said. “If there is, I haven’t found it yet.” What Robert didn’t say was that he’d gone to work for Scammon for the money; now he feared that he might never be paid.
Scammon was about to reply when John Hay came in. Hay seemed almost embarrassed to be there; he didn’t want to pull Robert away, but he knew he had no choice. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Hay said, “but I must have a word.”
“What is it?” Robert asked.
“It’s your mother,” Hay replied.
JOHN DRAKE MARCHED BACK INTO THE MICHIGAN AVENUE HOTEL, and this time Fletcher Bingham was with him. They were flanked by a number of corpulent friends.
Drake marched up to Ullman and smiled. “Let me ask you again,” Drake said. “Shall we settle the deal?”
Ullman just stared. The men had the look of barroom bouncers.
“You see,” Drake said, “you have two options. You may either sell the business and profit greatly—” He nodded discreetly to the men. “— or we could escort you across the street and you may become, shall we say, intimately familiar with the lake bottom.” He pulled out his pocketwatch and set it on the counter. “You have five minutes to decide.” And he flashed a toothy grin.
Ullman just glared.
Fletcher crossed his arms and stared straight at Ullman. “He shouldn’t give us trouble,” Fletcher said.
“No,” said one of the friends, “but he might flounder around like a catfish.”
Ullman stood still for a moment, then looked down at Drake’s watch. “Have it your way,” he said as he picked up a pen.
“Damned right,” Fletcher said.
Drake nodded and put the watch in his pocket. The two men signed the necessary papers, and the suitcase of money changed hands. And John Drake became the first Chicago businessman to profit from the fire.
THE TRIBUNE BUILDING HAD FARED BETTER THAN MOST STRUCTURES NEARBY. A large portion of its northern wall had fallen, but apart from that, most of the Tribune’s supports remained intact. Still, the Dearborn Street entrance was impassible, and at the Madison Street entrance, the stone steps had shattered in the heat.
Simon stoo
d before the building and took a deep breath. He couldn’t help thinking of what John Hay had said, about how the fire could not destroy everything. Simon was desperate to hold onto his old life, and he hoped to find something— anything— that might have survived the inferno. He knew he was most likely dreaming, and that the wrecked Tribune building could be dangerous. All the same, Simon couldn’t bring himself to give up.
He stepped through the doorway and entered a burned-out labyrinth. A sole light fixture still hung from a chain, while the rest of the ceiling lay collapsed on the ground. Simon made his way through a web of shattered beams and rafters. He saw a blackened door barely hanging on one hinge. The staircase seemed steeper and darker than ever; Simon tested his weight on it to see if the structure would hold, and it did, so he made his way upstairs.
The former editorial office was now open to the sky. Dark clouds were coming in from the west, and Simon felt a damp breeze that seemed to signal rain. Simon couldn’t help thinking of the old familiar room and the many hours he’d spent there. Now the workspaces were all buried under brick, plaster, and ashes. Simon found the spot where his desk had once been, but he immediately saw that nothing could have survived. Lillian’s old papers were gone, as were Simon’s notes, and he knew they would be impossible to replace.
“Fancy seeing you here,” came a voice.
Simon jumped and spun around to see Elias Colbert behind him. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.”
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