1871

by Peter J Spalding

  “But—” Robert paused. “Will Greeley not be angry?”

  “Perhaps, but we have a clean conscience. Our failure to get off a dispatch was inevitable. The Herald had men who went off to New York in relays and got off their dispatches on the way. Neither Mister Hay nor I thought that’s at all worth the while.”

  “Oh good heavens,” Robert said as he rushed back out the door.

  “Where are you going?” Simon asked.

  “I must get to a telegraph,” Robert said. “There must be some way to stop him—”

  “You needn’t waste your time,” Simon replied. “You may take it from one who’s been trying to send out wires for days. If Western Union won’t allow critical news to get out, then they certainly won’t allow personal messages through.”

  “What the devil are you saying?” Robert asked. “Are you telling me you’re complicit—”

  “I’m telling you nothing of the sort—”

  “Well, why didn’t you stop him?” Robert yelled. “He’s now got my mother’s letters, and heaven only knows what he’ll do—”

  “Robert,” Simon snapped, “don’t come screaming at me. You mustn’t forget that he is your best friend and not mine.”

  AT THE WATER WORKS, hundreds of machinists had been working around the clock. The building contained three massive pumps, two of which had been damaged beyond repair. The third did appear to be salvageable, and by a stroke of luck, the surviving pump was the largest in the city. It could pump nearly eighteen million gallons per day, which would at least suffice until the other pumps were replaced.

  Finally, as night fell that Tuesday, the machinists’ work was complete. City engineer Joseph Locke completed his inspection and deemed the engine safe. Then the stokers lit the boilers and put on a head of steam. Locke stood by, along with the workers who had made it all happen.

  Then, at half past eight in the evening, the men set the machinery in motion. The steam fed into the pump. As the pressure built up in the pistons, the connecting rods began to move, and the flywheel started to turn. The pipes shuddered, and Locke heard a muffled roar as lake water poured into the mains. The pump forced the water to rise, and slowly but surely, the Water Tower began to re-fill.

  Now, at long last, Chicago could again defend itself against fire. At least that was what everyone hoped— since no one knew how much more trauma the city could take.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: No Sufficient Protection

  “Mid-winter is likely to find us with our treasury bare, with outdoor labor to a large extent necessarily suspended, and with a city full of poor looking to us for food and fuel.”

  — Relief and Aid Society

  MARSHAL WILLIAMS WAS BOTH THE MOST LOVED AND MOST HATED MAN IN THE CITY. In the first few days after the fire, most Chicagoans had praised him profusely. The Tribune and the Evening Journal had both commended his men for their valor, and countless politicians had claimed them all to be heroes. But now, a mere few days later, the public discourse had taken a very different tack.

  The reality of the fire was just sinking in, and the details of what happened were just becoming clear. Williams and his men were now second-guessing every decision they’d made. They were scrutinizing all the disastrous missteps— the mistaken alarms, lack of organization, and poor strategy at the start of the blaze— and they were blaming each other for the way things had gone. Williams was now feuding with his assistant marshal, John Schank, and he was furious with the men of the Fred Gund for giving up their engine to the blaze. Slowly but surely, the infighting spilled into the public arena, and a whole new controversy began gathering steam.

  Williams did try to defend his men. He pointed out that by the time the O’Leary barn had caught fire, his men had already been working nearly twenty-four hours straight. Under the circumstances, it was hard to see how they could have ever mounted an offense. But those statements did nothing to diffuse the situation; if anything, the people of Chicago were now angrier than ever.

  THE TRIBUNE OFFICE WAS GETTING INCREASINGLY HECTIC. Medill was busy planning for the upcoming election. Under normal circumstances, Simon would have wanted to be right by his side. But at that particular moment, Simon was in no mood for politics; he was anxious to start rebuilding his home, and he’d had enough of all the delays.

  As Simon glanced at the day’s proofs, he saw that the Mutual Security Insurance Company had taken out an ad. At first he didn’t think much of it, since the company had advertised on many occasions before. On the day before the fire, it had bragged of its “known reliability” and financial strength. But now, barely a week later, its ad had a very different tone:

  TO OUR PATRONS.

  .... we would say our Policies no longer afford a sufficient protection against loss. Any information concerning the condition of companies, or assistance in procuring new insurance, will be cheerfully rendered by the officers of the Company.

  Simon had to read the ad twice before its meaning sank in. Then it suddenly hit him: his insurance, which he needed more than anything, was now practically worthless. He had been counting on that money to help rebuild his house, but now he realized that the check would never come. Simon had no idea where else he might come up with money.

  With that, Simon’s blood began to boil. He grabbed the proof, rushed out of the building, and stormed down Washington Street. He raced to the Mutual Security claims office, but he found the building locked, although he could see adjusters working late inside. Simon rapped on the door to no avail. He was now seething with anger. He was tempted to look for a back door, but then he thought of a better place to go.

  He raced to Robert’s house, stormed up to his desk, and threw the proof at his face. “What the devil is this?” Simon yelled. “You recommended this insurance to me, a-and now they’re saying they can’t protect against loss? What sort of insurance is that?”

  “Calm yourself,” Robert said. “Listen, you must understand how much has been lost in the blaze—”

  “So because of Scammon’s failures, he’s dooming a law-abiding citizen to ruin?”

  “Simon,” Robert said, “Mister Scammon is as law-abiding as you are. But the insurance money must come from somewhere, and the losses are so catastrophic that he’s got five times as many claims as he could ever hope to pay—”

  “Stop defending him,” Simon shot back. “He’s a swindler and a crook, and don’t you dare deny it. I paid a large sum for that protection, so if no protection exists, then the transaction is a fraud. You cannot possibly defend him out of conscience— you defend him only because you are a lawyer and you hardly know better. Well, I’ll have none of that, I tell you—”

  “Simon—”

  “No, don’t speak to me as a friend. I am no longer any such thing. To destroy people who have already lost so much— that is the most dastardly, cowardly, unconscionable act that I’ve witnessed in my life!” And with that, Simon snatched the proof back from Robert and stormed out of the office.

  He threw the door open and emerged onto the street, and he felt a cold blast of wind strike his face. He felt the blood pumping through his veins, and he clenched his jaw as he tore up the proof and threw the pieces into the wind. A few passersby stopped to look at him, but they were too frightened to say anything.

  Simon had heard that the industry was in trouble; even nationwide insurers such as Aetna and Globe Mutual were struggling to pay their claims. Still, until that point, he had never imagined that the crisis would affect him directly. The implications hit him so suddenly and so shockingly that Simon couldn’t bring himself to speak.

  Simon had literally worked on his house with his bare hands. Now he felt as if a piece of him had been torn away. As the city darkened, his frustration built, and Simon found it harder and harder to control himself. He stomped down the streets, glaring at everyone he saw. The curfew was still in place, but many people were working late to cart the rubble away. Unsavory characters were prowling about, and their faces flitted in and out
of the darkness. No one spoke to Simon, which only made him angrier. He felt as though he was going to burst.

  The sunset had just faded from the sky when Simon found himself at the ruins of his home. He couldn’t help himself anymore. He ripped a timber out of the ground and smashed it against a dead tree. Ashes flew in all directions and coated his hands and clothes. He screamed something incoherent, and a tomcat raced away. Then, without warning, a floor plank collapsed, and Simon’s leg went flying into the basement. He felt another sharp pain in his knee. With a heave, Simon pulled himself back up and held a fist to the sky.

  “Why?” he asked as if he were yelling at God. “How in the bloody hell did I deserve this? What in God’s name did I do wrong?”

  Simon flung the remnants of his candlesticks across the ground, and they landed in a cloud of black dust. One living room wall was still standing; he slammed his body against it, and a beam gave way, leaving the wall hanging at an angle. Then he punched a burned cherub and snapped the figure in half.

  Simon was convinced that the world was out to destroy him. He had never believed in fate, or providence, or anything of the sort, but he was now certain that something was afoot. Everything, from the exceptionally dry weather to the erroneous alarms, had all aligned against him. Simon’s anger was now reaching a crescendo, for as far as he was concerned, the whole world could go to hell.

  His breath started coming in heavy gasps as he gnashed his teeth in anger. He kicked some of the debris, which only made his leg hurt more. His heart was pounding harder than ever. He whipped his neck backward, bellowed another primeval cry, and dropped to the ground.

  Simon felt the lump in his throat getting thicker, and his adrenaline quickly gave way to exhaustion. He suddenly realized that, although he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t know how he felt.

  He crumpled over, into the grime and ashes, and laid silently with his face in his hands.

  ROBERT WAS FEELING QUITE TORMENTED HIMSELF. He was also terrified of what John Hay might do, for there was no telling who might now see Mary’s letters. Worse yet, Hay might spark rumors about Robert and Lillian. Robert wanted to rush to Springfield himself, but he knew he couldn’t leave Chicago with his mother in her state— nor could he stop thinking of Simon’s anguish either.

  He sat alone in his kitchen, poured himself a glass of sherry, and swallowed it all in one gulp. In truth, his drinking only made him feel worse; the rest of the Lincolns were teetotalers, and Robert wanted to resist the drink but couldn’t.

  He suddenly heard a voice behind him. “I should like a glass of my own,” Lillian said.

  Robert turned around quickly. “I-I mean,” he said, “I had thought you’d gone to bed.”

  “Well, I hadn’t,” Lillian said.

  “I see that,” Robert said. Then he nodded, pulled another glass from his cabinet, and poured her a drink.

  Robert looked into her eyes. He knew he shouldn’t be getting any ideas, but Lillian seemed to understand him in a way he couldn’t describe. As much as Robert hated to admit it, he and Lillian had a great deal in common: they were both sick with self-loathing, desperate for companionship, and terrified of being alone.

  “Enjoy your drink while you can,” Robert said, “for I’m nearly out of alcohol— and heaven only knows when we’ll be able to buy more.”

  Lillian reached out to take the glass, and for a brief moment, her hand touched his. Robert’s adrenaline surged. Lillian blinked, set down her drink, and drew close to his body. Before they knew it, she and Robert were kissing with a hunger they’d never felt before.

  Robert knew that he was going against much of what he’d been brought up to believe. When he was growing up, his parents had always adored one another, so he had never known anything but true love. He had assumed that was how people lived, but now even Robert had to doubt what he knew. He was starting to think that matters of the heart were more complicated and more incomprehensible than he’d ever imagined— and he was wondering what love really was.

  “Now wait,” Robert said as he pulled his body away. “I thought you were a righteous woman— too righteous perhaps—”

  “Yes I know,” Lillian said, “I thought so too. I suppose I was wrong.”

  Robert swallowed. “I see,” he replied.

  SIMON WAS NOW LIMPING BACK ACROSS THE CITY. His knee was weak and painful, so he often had to rest it. He was in no mood to face Robert, but he knew he’d have to stay with him as he had nowhere else to go. He was still as heartbroken as ever, and he struggled to contain his anger and confusion.

  The landscape around him was now utterly dark. The moon had already set, and the stars were hidden behind the clouds. No one was supposed to be out after dusk, so the burnt district was deserted. The only glimmers of light came from the untouched houses on the horizon. A mournful train whistle echoed through the wreckage.

  Simon thought back to when he’d bought his land from Dyer. He remembered how excited he’d been at the time, and he recalled how he’d then sensed great things to come. Of course, that was before he’d learned of Dyer’s past; and it was certainly before he’d grasped the dangers around him.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Simon thought. He was supposed to be a dashing young bachelor, doing all of the things that normal bachelors do. Simon had imagined himself seeing the world and making his own rules, unencumbered by a wife and children and all of the things that adulthood would confer. But now he found himself saddled with more than he’d ever expected.

  As Simon continued on, he suddenly realized how alone he was. He could barely see where he was, and he almost had to navigate by feel. The burnt district stretched on endlessly in each direction. If anything happened, Simon knew he’d have to fend for himself. The realization made his heart shudder; goosebumps crawled across his skin as he quickened his pace and heard the ashes crunching underfoot.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Simon reached Robert’s house. As soon as he stepped in the door, Lillian frowned and looked at him. Simon gave a dismissive wave, but his eyes betrayed the way he truly felt.

  “What happened?” Lillian asked.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “That is to say— I mean—” He licked his lips, then let down his guard and finally spoke his mind. “How much money have you got?” he asked. “I need every penny you can spare.”

  Lillian hadn’t expected that question. “I-I have no pennies to give,” she replied. “When my necessities have been paid... little o’ nothing will remain.”

  “What of the factory?” Simon asked. “You needn’t rebuild that right way—”

  “Oh, of cou’se I must,” she snapped. “Do you realize how many workers depend on me now?”

  “Don’t give me that self-righteous drivel, for I’ve heard it all before. For heaven’s sakes, you sound like my father.”

  “Well, at least you’ve still got a fathe’,” Lillian snapped. “None of the rest of us do.”

  Simon froze. The room seemed to fall silent. “That was unnecessary,” he finally said.

  “Then stop disparaging my position when you have no right to do so.”

  Simon didn’t answer. He heard a noise and turned to see Robert coming out of the kitchen. He and Robert exchanged awkward glances. Then Simon turned back to Lillian. “Whatever happened to loyalty?” he asked.

  “Loyalty has nothing to do with it,” Lillian said. “I have no obligations to you, financially or othe’wise— and how dare you act so entitled to my money?”

  “Entitled?” Simon stumbled across the foyer. “I’m entitled to common decency, which I don’t think is too much to ask— and that’s one thing that you clearly don’t have.” And with that, he went upstairs and slammed the bedroom door behind him.

  IT TOOK SIMON ALL NIGHT TO CALM DOWN.

  As he lay in bed, trying to sleep but failing miserably, he thought about what had happened. He couldn’t help thinking of what his kid brother had said: if your house is completed, and your work is suc
cessful, and everything you hoped for comes true, then what comes next? What, pray tell me, is the ultimate point? And, despite all of his soul-searching, Simon didn’t have a clear answer.

  Finally he got out of bed and tiptoed across the room. He was all too aware that he had still not gotten word to his family. He wondered if they had tried to contact him; the city’s communications were so poor that any letters or telegrams could have easily gotten lost.

  Simon lit a candle and found a pen and some paper. Then he sat on the couch and started to write:

  Dearest Mother and Father:

  I am sorry that I have neglected you for so long, but since the late calamity, I have had no time to myself. I could tell of so many awful scenes, but doubtless you have heard account after account as it is, so I shall not revisit that in itself.

  Since then, the world— as it was to the people of this vicinity— has changed. An age has closed, and a new epoch, obscured in doubt and uncertainty, has now recently begun. We can all feel that and most of us, I imagine, will feel it more and more as time advances. Men are sometimes full of certain hopes, but the smoke of battle has not yet cleared away— and that realization, to be followed quite often by depression and despair, will eventually come to all.

  Tommy and I are now burnt out of house and home. I have searched through the ruins, and I am not certain that anything of value remains. It is for the small things I grieve: Gregory’s letter, Tommy’s favorite playthings, the novels you gave me as a boy— all the keepsakes assembled from our lives which had accumulated in my home.

  Though my situation may seem rather grim, I do not expect sympathy from anyone, nor do I ask any aid. I wish only to give you the facts so that your worries may be at least somewhat relieved. I would not call us disheartened— rather, we are as well as could be expected after all we have been through.