1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “Indeed,” Colbert said as he came to Simon’s side. “Who would have imagined that we’d someday find ourselves here?”

  “I suppose you could say it so.” Simon gazed out from what had once been his office windows. From there, he had a panoramic view of the burnt district; it made the sheer scale of the carnage seem all the more daunting. “So what brings you here?” Simon finally asked. “I thought you’d been given a day of respite.”

  “I thought so too,” Colbert said, “but I still have reporting to do. And Mister Medill wishes to know how much of the building can be saved.”

  Simon looked around. “That wouldn’t be too much, I presume,” he replied.

  “No,” Colbert said. “I’ve found only one thing, a marble ornament attached to the mantle. I see no further need to be here risking my neck.” Colbert snorted and made a wistful expression. “It’s quite ironic, for when I came here from England, I expected to see the famous West... never in a thousand years did I expect to see this.”

  Simon nodded. He felt the same way, although he didn’t say so out loud. He stared out blankly for a moment, and he barely even noticed when a raindrop hit his hand.

  “Oh good heavens,” Colbert said. “Not now.”

  Simon was about to turn away, but then he heard a voice call his name. “Listen,” he said, “can you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Colbert asked.

  Simon leaned out the window and saw Robert’s carriage below. John Hay was trying to catch Simon’s attention. But as the rain started falling, the noise drowned out Hay’s words.

  Simon cupped his hands around his mouth. “What is it?” he yelled.

  Hay yelled something back, but Simon couldn’t make it out. His tone, however, was urgent.

  “Hell,” Simon grumbled as he rushed for the stairs.

  Suddenly the floor shifted, and Simon slipped on the wet ground. His knee had just started to heal, but now it gave out. Simon felt a searing pain in his leg, and he had to stifle the yelp that nearly burst from his mouth.

  “Mister Caldwell!” Colbert said as he ran to his side.

  Simon pulled himself to his feet. “I am all right,” he said, although he winced for a moment. “I must go.” And he hobbled quickly downstairs.

  Lightning flickered in the clouds as he staggered out of the building. Simon had barely made it to the carriage when he had to stop and rest. “What is it?” he asked.

  Robert didn’t say a word.

  “We’re going to speak with Doctor Smith,” Hay replied. “Robert insisted that I bring you along.”

  Simon looked at Robert. “Oh?” Simon asked. He waited for a response, but Robert didn’t move. “Right,” Simon finally said; then he mustered his strength and climbed into the carriage.

  Finally Hay whipped the reins, and the carriage hurried toward the south.

  MERCY HOSPITAL, WHICH HAD LAIN NEARLY EMPTY A FEW DAYS BEFORE, was now overflowing with patients. The scene was every bit as nightmarish as the one that Mary had imagined. Grown men were writhing in pain from their wounds. Patients were wheezing and coughing, trying to breathe through badly seared lungs. The rain was drumming on the windows, which created a low disquieting rumble. Open wounds were getting infected, and the dying rotting flesh let off an eye-watering stench. The doctors and nurses could do very little to help; they could only apply ointments, clean dressings, and a handful of remedies.

  Doctor Smith was still working upstairs, with his patients laid out before him. There were not enough cots, so the orderlies had lain some patients directly on the floor. A single aisle led down the center of the room, providing access for all the doctors, nurses, and visitors.

  Robert couldn’t help feeling guilty as he pulled the doctor aside. He didn’t want to take up his time when so many patients were waiting; but at the same time, he didn’t see any way around it.

  “What is it?” Smith asked.

  Hay crossed his arms. “Tell him, Robert,” he said.

  “I-I....”

  Smith raised his eyebrows. “Are you about to say what I suspect?” he asked.

  “Well, you had asked if my mother was a danger to herself... and, well, I’m afraid that she is.”

  “So you wish to commit her?” Smith asked.

  Robert’s expression froze. “No no, I didn’t mean that,” he said.

  “Then what did you mean?” Smith shot back.

  Robert swallowed and lowered his voice. “She sees me as the villain,” he said.

  “That’s normal,” Smith replied.

  “W-wait, normal?”

  Smith sighed. “Well, perhaps that’s not the proper word,” he said. “But I did tell you that there’s no easy solution.” He picked up a jar of linseed oil. “Come, walk with me.”

  As Robert followed the doctor, Simon limped along behind. He heard them talking about asylums and moral treatment, but he struggled to keep up with the men. His leg simply wasn’t moving as quickly as it should. Hay was the first one who noticed.

  “Wait a moment,” Hay said. “Are you all right?”

  Simon tried to disguise the hobble in his step. “I’m fine,” he replied.

  Robert stopped and looked back. “What?” he asked. “Is your wound still not healing?”

  Simon shook his head. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “Are you my keeper?”

  “You mustn’t say such things,” Smith replied. “If you have a wound, then for your sake, I believe I should see it.”

  Simon rolled his eyes, sat down on the floor, and started rolling up his pant leg. His knee was still swollen; his calf had just begun to heal, and now it had once again been torn open.

  Smith nudged his spectacles. “You’ve got to take care of this,” he said. “Don’t you know what might happen if gangrene sets in?”

  Simon thought back to Lillian’s old admonition. “I’ve been so advised,” he replied.

  Smith beckoned for a nurse, and together they went about cleaning and bandaging the wound. As they did, a group of people shuffled past, carrying a man on a stretcher.

  “You damned croakers,” the patient yelled. “All o’ya! You go boil your shirts! You hear me?”

  Robert looked at the doctor. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Smith shook his head, then leaned toward Robert and whispered into his ear: “He’s headed for the death room.”

  “What?” Robert asked. He had never heard of death rooms, and he could only imagine what they might entail.

  “All of the doomed men are taken downstairs to a room in the back,” Smith explained. He kept his voice low so that none of the patients could hear. “We don’t wish to harm morale by having men screaming as they die. It’s for that we keep terminal cases separated from the rest.”

  Robert watched the procession. The attendants were clustered around the stretcher so closely that they hid the dying man. Several onlookers shuddered as the entourage went past. The patients clearly knew what the procession meant— and as far as Robert could see, it wasn’t helping morale at all.

  “So it’s like an institution,” Robert said.

  “Pardon me?” Smith asked.

  Robert turned and looked into the doctor’s eyes. “Isn’t that the purpose of an institution?” Robert asked. “To keep patients away from the public, so they don’t bother anyone.”

  “Well,” Smith said, “I’m not so sure I would put it that way—”

  “But it’s true,” Robert snapped.

  “No.” Smith put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “Your mother’s condition isn’t terminal.”

  “She thinks it is,” Robert said. “And she very well could be right. Aren’t the miseries of life always terminal, in a way?”

  Behind him, the dying patient’s mother was screaming. “Wait!” she yelled. “You cannot do this!”

  “Excuse me,” said a nurse, “but you’re disturbing the others.”

  “No, wait!” said the woman. “You must give him a chance.”

 
“I’m sorry ma’am, but there is nothing we can do.”

  “This is absurd!” she yelled. “You must not take him away. Listen!”

  The pallbearers ignored her. They stepped into the stairwell and disappeared from view.

  “This is unacceptable,” the orderly said as he took the mother’s arm and dragged her away.

  “You must not do this!” she yelled.

  Robert turned away and choked down the lump in his throat. He looked at Doctor Smith, and he thought of the day he’d learned his brother was dying. “An ‘Insanity File’ indeed,” Robert said.

  “Excuse me?” Smith asked.

  “The insanity was my own,” Robert said. “I know not what I was thinking. I could never banish her to Jacksonville—”

  “Now Robert,” Hay said, “you mustn’t say anything rash.”

  “Rash?” Robert snapped. “I do not think treating my mother with dignity is the slightest bit rash. What have you against her?”

  Hay paused for a moment before answering. “Nothing,” he said. “But things are so much more complicated.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know,” Robert said. “You needn’t tell me such things, for I am not a small child—”

  “Now, no one has said such a thing—”

  “Gentlemen,” Smith said, “I must ask you to calm down. I shan’t have you being disruptive here.” He raised his eyebrows and stared straight at Robert. “Now, you just stated that your mother was in danger. Correct?”

  “I-I was wrong,” Robert said. “I thought perhaps she was... but I was very much mistaken.”

  Smith rolled his eyes as he gathered up his things. “Well, I haven’t the time for this,” he replied. “I’ve got far too many patients who require my assistance. Mister Caldwell, I recommend you keep your wound clean and bandaged, and you must seek assistance at the first sign of any infection. As for you, Mister Lincoln, you may return as soon as you’ve made your decision, but not a minute before. Good day, gentlemen.”

  And with that, the doctor marched off, leaving Robert and his friends alone in the aisle.

  THAT SAME DAY, LILLIAN RECEIVED THE CHECK FROM HER INSURANCE. It was almost a miracle that she’d gotten any money at all; her insurer, Gurdon Hubbard, had felt so honor-bound to pay his claims that he had either mortgaged or auctioned virtually everything he owned. Lillian was eternally grateful, for she knew how far he’d now driven himself into debt. But that allowed Lillian to start the long process of rebuilding.

  She was starting to see what a huge task lay ahead. There were so many decisions to make, many of which she’d never considered before. She had never thought much of running a company, but now she had a new respect for her father. Perhaps, she thought, he’d been smarter than she had assumed. Her guilty conscience now threatened to overwhelm her, and it was only with great effort that she kept it in check.

  “Imagine,” she said to Robert. “One week previous, my greatest goal was to eradicate the slums in ou’ midst... how greatly things have changed.” She swallowed. “I had never expected that the blaze would eradicate them fo’ me.”

  Robert blinked. “W-well,” he said, “so much has been lost—”

  “I’m not certain I need have bothered with my old work,” Lillian said. “I know not what I accomplished.”

  Robert tried to reassure her, but he didn’t know what to say. It was just as well, for Lillian didn’t want him to say much at all.

  Unbeknownst to them both, Hay was watching them through a doorway. He couldn’t help noticing how intimate they seemed. There seemed to be a deep connection between then, as if they had known each other for years. Hay didn’t quite know what to think about that.

  Hay cleared his throat. “My friend,” he said to Robert, “I have something to show you.”

  Robert looked up. “What is it?” he asked.

  Hay stepped into the parlor. “I know it has been a difficult time in many ways. I had brought you a gift, and I had hoped to find the right time to present it— and well, I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

  Robert snorted. “I have no need for gifts,” he replied, “at least not at the moment.”

  Hay didn’t listen. He handed Robert a freshly-bound book with Hay’s name on the cover. The book was entitled Pike County Ballads in tribute to his childhood in Pittsfield, Illinois. “I thought you might appreciate this,” Hay said.

  Robert blinked. “My word,” he said, “you finally published your poems?”

  “Of course,” Hay replied. “I had spoken of it so long— I felt it was high time that I do it. There is nothing I so much love as good poetry.”

  Robert nodded as he paged through the book. “If I only I had such a passion,” he said, “an interest that sustained me as your poetry does you—” He sighed. “I pray you realize how lucky you are.”

  “I thought you had such an endeavor,” Hay replied.

  Robert paused. “You’re referring to politics?” he asked.

  “What else?” Hay replied.

  “Listen,” Robert said, “my interest in such matters is purely a sporting one.”

  “So you say,” Hay shot back.

  “John, I needn’t have you or anyone else telling me what I enjoy.”

  “Easy, friend,” Hay replied. “I am only pointing out that you do have a talent, and in fact it is greater and more important than mine. And this is true regardless of whether you choose to believe it.”

  “I wish that were so,” Robert said. He looked down at the book, and his eyes fell on a particular passage Hay had written:

  You wait and say with vague annoy,

  “It will not sound so sweet again,”

  Until comes back the wild refrain

  That floods your soul with treble joy.

  So when I see my love again

  Fades the unquiet doubt away,

  While shines her beauty like the day

  Over my happy heart and brain.

  Finally Robert sighed, closed the book, and put it away on his shelf. His heart ached for Mary Harlan, but he did his best not to let his feelings show.

  “Now, you must actually read it,” Hay said, “unlike Leaves of Grass, which has sat uselessly on your shelf since I gave it to you.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Robert said, “but I promise to read your book shortly.”

  Hay shrugged. “Well, in truth, Walt Whitman is a far greater poet than I. If you would but give his art a chance, you would find yourself amazed.” He looked at Lillian. “He’s not as romantic as some others, I suppose, but you needn’t let that bother you.”

  Robert frowned. He didn’t know what Hay meant. “I am in no way a romantic,” he said, “certainly not anymore.”

  THE CITY AS A WHOLE WAS STILL VERY MUCH ON EDGE. Everyone was anxious for news, but the Tribune’s makeshift presses could only print a limited number of papers; the result was that hustlers scalped copies and made a sizeable profit. The military presence was visible on every street, and the soldiers were strictly enforcing a curfew. Water and gas service had not been restored, so people had to make do with buckets, candles, and whatever else they had in their homes. Whenever a fire broke out— regardless of how minor it was— hundreds of people would race to put it out.

  The aid effort, at least, was not as haphazard as before. The Relief and Aid Society had implemented a “General Plan” for relief. The Plan had divided the city into districts and subdistricts, each with its own superintendent and a staff of clerks and inspectors. Volunteers were going from door to door to gather detailed information on each person’s needs. The goal was to extend aid quickly to each person who needed it, while preventing abuse from those who did not. “A discrimination must be made,” wrote one of its directors, “between those who are helpless from their own misfortune and those whose misery arises from their own default.” To deter fraud, the society cross-checked all of its applicants against the newest city directories, and it kept musket-bearing soldiers on hand for security.

 
The enterprise, however, was still controversial. The Relief and Aid Society was a private organization, with no accountability to the government, the voters, or anyone else. Its Board of Directors was composed of wealthy businessmen like Marshall Field and George Pullman, who had very little contact with other types of people. They were surprised to learn that many fire victims didn’t even speak English; they hadn’t thought to hire bilingual workers, or to issue their notices in other languages, so they struggled to communicate with the refugees before them.

  Simon knew all of this, but to him, it didn’t much matter. He was determined not to take charity at all— except possibly shelter from Robert— and he was convinced he’d be on his feet shortly. As soon as his insurance money arrived, he thought, he would rebuild his home, and his problems would be solved.

  And so Simon waited. He could only hope that he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  OCTOBER 15 MARKED EXACTLY ONE WEEK AFTER THE FIRE. A furious gale was now blowing, and its gusts were whipping up dust all over the city. Burned-out walls were threatening to fall over, and pebbles were tumbling across the ground.

  In Robert’s mind, the day had a special significance. It was his daughter’s second birthday, and he couldn’t help thinking of the day she’d been born. It had been such a momentous event, but it already felt like a distant memory. Robert hated to admit it, but his daughter was now barely part of his life.

  When he came home that evening, he found that his old friend was gone. Hay’s luggage had vanished, as had his coat, hat, and shoes. Robert’s eyes widened as he thought of the Insanity File. “Where’s John?” he asked, although he suspected that he already knew the answer.

  Simon was still nursing his leg. “He’s on a train to Springfield,” he said. “He made quite a hasty departure— for we never did get any of the dispatches out.”

  “What?” Robert asked. “How could he leave? Would his services not have been required for a few more days at least?”

  Simon shrugged. “He said he’d been here enough days already, and he felt he’d accomplished very little of note. I don’t believe he saw much reason to remain any longer.”