1871

by Peter J Spalding

  My address— at least for the time being— is 653 South Wabash Avenue. Please write when you can, for I long to hear from you all. Please tell Clara I shall write to her soon. Until then, take care of yourselves, love to all, and pray wish me good luck.

  Your affectionate son,

  S.

  Finally Simon folded the letter and sealed it. He took a deep breath, and slowly but surely, he began feeling better. The thought of his family was almost like a tonic. Simon had been away from his parents and siblings so long, he had almost forgotten how their companionship felt. But now, after writing to them, he no longer felt he was alone in the world. He found himself wondering what his family was up to; he knew his parents wanted to establish an orphanage for Dutchess County’s poor, and Simon couldn’t help hoping that they’d met with success. Simon wished he could see all his loved ones again, but for the time being, he knew that was impossible. He could only wait, cross his fingers, and make the best of things.

  Finally, at four o’clock that morning, Simon headed back to his bed.

  GENERAL SHERIDAN BEGAN THAT DAY WITH A PIECE OF STARTLING NEWS.

  “This just came over the wires,” Thomas Grosvenor said. “The governor, it seems, is quite angry with the mayor. And I’m afraid you are at the center of the dispute.”

  Sheridan scoffed. “Am I?” he asked. “What’s the matter now?”

  “Listen to his words,” Grosvenor said, and he began reading a letter:

  It excited the greatest surprise, and has occasioned me the profoundest mortification... and it has pained me quite as deeply that you should have thought it proper, without consultation with me, by telegraph or otherwise, to have practically abdicated your functions as Mayor.

  “The mayor, abdicated his functions?” Sheridan snapped. “Certainly not—”

  “The governor goes on,” Grosvenor replied.

  Every act of the officers and soldiers of the United States Army that operates to restrain or control the people is illegal, and their presence in the city, except for the purposes of the United States, ought to be no longer continued.

  “What? Illegal?” Sheridan asked. “And why does he only say this now? We have been under this state of affairs for a week.”

  “The governor claims he wasn’t aware,” Grosvenor said. “He claims to be preoccupied with the special legislative session—”

  “Oh, poppycock,” Sheridan snapped. “How could he have not been aware? He was right here— he sat directly before me and uttered nary a word of dissent.”

  “Well, he’s dissenting now,” Grosvenor said. “He’s asked the General Assembly to investigate—”

  “What the devil?” Sheridan yelled. “Investigate? What crime might I have committed?”

  Joseph Medill entered the room. “It’s a violation of states’ rights,” he replied. “You established a military dictatorship— or at least so he will say.”

  All eyes turned toward Medill. The men all knew who he was, but they had never seen him outside of his Tribune office. “That’s preposterous,” Sheridan said.

  Medill was stone-faced. “I agree,” he replied, “but I am telling you how Palmer will construe it. I only fail to see how he has any power here, for your chain of command leads to the President, not to him.”

  “You presume I don’t know that?” Sheridan snapped.

  “Well, Grant has supported all we’ve done,” Medill said. “If Palmer disagrees, he can take it up with him.”

  Sheridan looked at Grosvenor, then turned back to Medill. “You had better damned well be right,” Sheridan said. “Fucking politicians.” And with that, he stormed away in a huff.

  SIMON WAS NOW MORE DESPERATE THAN EVER BEFORE. He knew he had to find a new way to get back on his feet, and in his way of thinking, his only option was to convince his bank of his plight.

  That, however, was much easier said than done. Mutual Security’s collapse had nearly driven the Marine Bank into the ground. The bank was now a pale shadow of what it had once been. In contrast to its once-proud downtown building, the bank was now housed in a residential home. Papers were piled high on the shelves, just out of reach of the family dog, and the main office was just off the living room.

  Simon grudgingly sat down with Scammon, but he could barely contain his anger. The old man’s gregarious nature had all but disappeared. Simon watched as Scammon shuffled the papers, then let out a sigh.

  “Well sir,” Scammon finally replied, “here is the problem. There are literally thousands of people in your place. We have very little available capital— in fact, we’ve loaned out all we can. I hope to make back that money eventually, but in the near term... well, you must understand—”

  Simon cleared his throat. He didn’t appreciate Scammon’s obfuscation. “In other words, you won’t give me the money?”

  “I’m sorry,” Scammon replied. “I’m afraid we cannot.”

  “Now wait.”

  “I assure you, we are fully aware—”

  Simon put up his hand for silence. “Let me speak,” he snapped. “Can you not see how badly I need your assistance? I can do nothing without it. How am I to provide for my nephew? And—”

  “Mister Caldwell—”

  “Wait, Mister Scammon, you have no right to interrupt. I have done nothing wrong— I’ve lived my life exactly as I should, and yet what have I to show for it? Nothing! And you needn’t pretend you’re not at the root of all this. Had I known then what I have learned since, then I would never have done business with you. Now here I am, reduced to begging like a humiliated pauper, while you sit behind your desk and give me that condescending stare. Now what have you to say for yourself?”

  Scammon didn’t answer. He sat quietly with a pained look on his face.

  Simon finally took a deep breath. “Say something,” he said.

  It took Scammon a moment to find the right words. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it were up to me, I’d gladly help you in whatever way I could. But... but....” Scammon took a deep breath. “Well, as I said, I’m sorry.”

  SIMON SPENT THAT AFTERNOON TRYING TO FIND ANOTHER BANK THAT MIGHT HELP HIM. He went all over town but came up empty-handed. Nearly the entire city— for all its once-plentiful capital and its hard-charging businessmen— was broke. Simon pressed on nonetheless, propelled by fear and indignation and a plethora of other emotions. Still, no matter what he said or did, no one seemed able to help.

  Finally Simon resigned himself to what he’d have to do. He set aside his feelings— at least to the extent that he could— and he sought out the one friend who had helped him more than anyone else.

  Simon found Robert at the home of Judge Augustus Banyon, at what was purported to be a morale-boosting party. Banyon’s house was on Harrison Street, by the edge of the burnt district. Many prominent citizens were there, including many Chicago Club members, but Simon felt nothing but contempt for them all.

  Simon and Robert stared at each other for a minute. “It’s so fucking unfair,” Simon finally said.

  “Excuse me sir,” said a butler. “Would you like some claret?”

  Simon nodded. “As much as you can spare,” he replied. “And I should think that this big bug would like some as well.”

  “Now wait,” Robert said. “I don’t think it’s quite—”

  “Do not lie to yourself,” Simon snapped. “By the smell on your breath, you seem to do quite a bit of drinking by yourself.”

  Robert’s face went blank. He didn’t say a word, but he did allow the butler to pour him a glass.

  Simon curled his lip. “That’s my boy,” he said, then took a drink. “So tell me: what precisely does ‘cheerfully rendered’ mean?”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “The insurance company said assistance would be ‘cheerfully rendered,’” Simon snapped. “Are they cheerful that they’re going out of business and leaving me in the lurch?”

  Robert shook his head. “Simon—”

  “Well, one thing i
s certain,” he snapped. “I didn’t need Dyer to cheat me out of my home. You and Scammon have done the job yourselves.”

  Another voice came from behind him. “What’s that I hear?” it asked.

  Simon turned around, half-expecting to see Dyer himself. Instead, he saw Thomas Grosvenor.

  “Now listen,” Robert said, “I do not believe Dyer is terribly important—”

  “I didn’t ask for your thoughts,” Simon shot back as he finished his glass and motioned for the butler to refill it.

  “One moment,” Grosvenor said. “Dyer is more scrupulous than some make him out to be. He was fearless and invaluable in the old days of cholera, and let us not forget that he helped build this city.”

  Simon scoffed as he downed another drink. “I suppose,” he replied.

  Grosvenor turned and walked out of the room. Robert watched him leave, then looked back at Simon.

  “Well now,” Robert said, “you’ve made quite the fool of yourself. You realize, of course, that if anyone were to be prosecuted, Colonel Grosvenor would be the one to do it. To say nothing of the fact that I’ve never seen anyone gulp wine so quickly. How proud you must be.”

  “Humph,” Simon replied. “Scrupulous my foot— these businessmen are scoundrels, all of them, and I’ll defeat them at their own game if I have to.”

  “Is that the wine talking?” Robert asked.

  “Oh, you mudsill,” Simon shot back. “You cannot pretend that there is no one to blame for this mess. I intend to turn the city against them, for I am not the only one in such desperate straits. And I shall do it the way I know best, which is through the power of the pen—”

  “Listen,” Robert whispered, his voice hissing in anger, “this is no time to be making a scene, not among so many powerful men—”

  “But why must I care?” Simon asked. “I am not the budding politician among us.”

  Robert was silent.

  Simon looked at his empty wine glass. He started to get another, but then he realized that his body was swaying.

  “Come,” Robert said, “let me take you home at once—”

  “Why you?” Simon asked. “If I needed assistance... there would be any number of others who can accompany me—”

  “Simon,” Robert said, “in spite of everything, I still consider you a friend.”

  Simon paused. He didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Now come,” Robert said, “having another drink would be a poor idea— it may draw you into trouble, as it did me.”

  Simon looked at him for a moment. “Fine,” he said as he slammed down his glass. Then he went to the door and stomped off into the night.

  Grosvenor, on the other hand, did have another drink. In fact, he had several. It would be a deadly mistake.

  GROSVENOR LEFT THE PARTY AROUND ELEVEN O’CLOCK. Like many others, he was in no state to be alone, so Banyon accompanied him to the State Street trolley. Grosvenor then said goodbye and rode home in silence. By nature, he was a gregarious man; but he was now as exhausted as everyone else.

  He got off at his stop and started walking toward his home. Grosvenor lived in an unscathed neighborhood near the University of Chicago. The student population gave rise to pranks, drunken mishaps, and other sorts of trouble, so Sheridan’s troops had been especially vigilant there.

  On Cottage Grove Avenue, a young sentry named Theodore Treat stepped forward. “Halt! Who goes there?” he yelled.

  Grosvenor ignored him and kept walking.

  Treat cocked his gun. “Identify yourself!”

  “No,” Grosvenor said.

  Treat looked around. He didn’t know what to do. Treat had enlisted on an emergency basis; he hadn’t even been trained yet, and he certainly hadn’t been sworn in. In effect, he was just a college boy who had never fired a gun. But his orders were to shoot anyone who failed to stop after three warnings. Treat didn’t want to be court-martialed for disobeying an order. “Halt and give the countersign, or I’ll shoot!”

  Grosvenor finally stopped and turned around. He looked Treat straight in the eye. “Go to hell,” he said, “and bang away.”

  Treat pulled the trigger and felt the gun buck in his hands. The bullet hit Grosvenor just above the elbow and severed his brachial artery; then it shattered his tenth rib, tore through his stomach, and lodged in his liver. Grosvenor’s eyes flew open in shock. He stumbled around for a moment, then fell to the ground.

  “Oh God,” he mumbled. “Oh God! My wi... my wife....” He fumbled at the ground, then managed to pull himself to his feet. He walked a few more steps, then collapsed a second time.

  Treat began to panic. He looked around for help, but he didn’t see anyone nearby. He simply clutched his rifle and ran away.

  Several neighbors had heard the commotion and came running toward the scene. They found Grosvenor lying face-down with several pools of blood behind him. He was already slipping in and out of consciousness. He mumbled something about his family, but then his delirium took over, and the bystanders could no longer make out his words.

  “We must remove him at once,” said neighbor Hobert Fitzgerald. “And send for a doctor. Quickly!”

  SIMON, MEANWHILE, HAD JUST STAGGERED TO HIS BED. He was barely lucid enough to see a letter sitting on the dresser. Simon recognized his mother’s scrawl, but before he had a chance to read it, he heard a commotion downstairs.

  “What the devil?” came Robert’s voice.

  Simon looked out the window and saw two men running down the street. He also heard footsteps behind him, and he turned around to see Robert with a pained look on his face.

  “Something awful has happened,” Robert said.

  “Again?” Simon asked.

  “Simon, this is serious,” Robert said. “Quite how much so, I do not yet know.”

  Lillian peeked her head in the doorway. “What has happened?” she asked.

  “I shall tell you as soon as I know,” Robert said. “I must go. I will return when I can.”

  IN THE MEANTIME, Grosvenor had been taken to his Bryant Place home. The news had spread quickly, and his friends and neighbors were holding a vigil outside. The crowd was violating curfew, but no one seemed to care.

  Robert arrived to find soldiers guarding the entrance, and Doctor Smith was standing in the doorway. The sight seemed oddly familiar: it reminded Robert of the night his father had died. Robert had never worked closely with Grosvenor, but he had known him for years, so Robert now felt a strange mix of emotions.

  A man stepped out of the house, and the bystanders called out for news. But the man hurried to his carriage, and he left the scene without uttering a word. Up above, a second-floor window was alight, and Robert could see shadows pass behind the curtains. Robert could imagine what was going on inside: he knew that Grosvenor had a six-year-old son, and presumably the boy would be standing at his side.

  A slow parade of memories went marching through his mind. He thought of the many bedside vigils he’d held in his life, and he remembered the horrible feeling of watching a loved one draw his last breath. And he couldn’t help thinking that whenever it had happened, John Hay had helped him through it. As confused and as angry as Robert was, he knew he’d have to put his personal vendettas aside. And, sooner or later, he’d have to reach out to his friend.

  Against his better judgment, Robert stayed there all night. Others in the crowd came and went, but Robert couldn’t bring himself to leave. He clung to the hope that some miracle might happen. But then, just after five o’clock in the morning, the news finally came. Thomas Grosvenor was dead.

  And, shortly after that, Chicago’s martial law ended.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Union-Fireproof Ticket

  “There are robbers who are now scheming to obtain, under cover of law, a share of the poor remainder of the city’s funds.... A day’s vigilance on the part of our patriotic citizens will prevent such a disaster.”

  — Chicago Tribune

  THE GROSVENOR SHOOTING CAST A PALL O
VER THE CITY. The Tribune covered the story in exhausting detail, while the other papers hotly debated the matter.

  “If the mayor were not an old idiot,” wrote the Times, “and if his coadjutors on the police board were not as near as possible to nonentities, they would have put a stop long ago to the arming of boys to shoot down peaceable citizens.”

  The Evening Journal took the opposite tack. “That the authorities can call upon the government to assist in preventing a threatened outbreak, or putting one down had often been demonstrated,” it argued.

  The police board issued its own letter of protest. “The presence in the inhabited portion of the city, of military bodies under arms, and patrolling the streets, drinking in saloons, and disgusting citizens, is a measure fraught with evil consequences,” it said.

  Governor Palmer was more indignant than ever. “I did not believe it possible,” he wrote, “that any officer of the U.S. Army could again find a pretext for intermeddling in the affairs of the State of Illinois.” Palmer exchanged several telegrams with the White House, but President Grant kept insisting that no laws had been broken.

  Simon, however, was not focused on that issue at all. His insurance woes were now threatening to ruin all of his plans, and he found that his dilemma was horribly common. A total of fifty-seven insurers had been put out of business, and the ones that had survived were now struggling to recover. All in all, only half the fire’s legitimate claims could be paid. Simon wanted to write an exposé and denounce the industry in the press. But he knew it wouldn’t do much good, since the companies had already failed, so the money was already gone.

  With his options falling through, Simon considered a second job. He didn’t know where he would find more time to work, even if he went without sleep. But he quickly found that no one was hiring anyway— at least not for the types of jobs he could do— so his idea didn’t pan out.

  Fueled by large doses of coffee and very little sleep, Simon began contacting banks in other cities. In one marathon day, he sent a flurry of letters to Rockford, Peoria, Champaign, Kankakee, and Aurora. He hoped that at least one of the letters would get a response, and after a few days, he had indeed gotten several replies. To his great disappointment, they all rejected him for essentially the same reason: the fire had exhausted the banks’ resources, and they simply couldn’t help. Simon’s heart sank as he tried to figure out what else he might do.