But as exhausted as he was, he still had work to do at the Tribune. With so many communications still down, the city depended on the papers for news. And as better printing equipment came in, the Tribune was able to print larger issues. That, in turn, allowed for more advertising, which meant that the paper’s finances could start to recover.
Simon began to realize that he could use this to his advantage. Joseph Medill was reveling in his newfound power, and Simon was anxious to grab onto his coattails. And so Simon went to his office, explained his predicament, and tried to wheel and deal as best be could.
Medill’s reaction didn’t seem promising at first. “My assistance?” he asked. “You require my assistance?”
“Well, yes sir,” Simon replied. “I— well, you have a good name. Bankers will extend you credit... so I need your help in securing a loan.”
“I see,” Medill said. He seemed to think it over. “And how would I stand to gain in that?”
“I don’t know,” Simon replied. “I shall do what you ask. You must understand that I need this, for I’m more desperate than I could have ever imagined—”
“Oh, calm yourself,” Medill said. “For goodness sakes, Mister Caldwell, you must not lose control.”
Simon licked his lips and tried to ease the tension in his body. “Yes sir,” he replied.
“I have heard this story before from hundreds of others,” he said. “You are not alone in this matter. I wish to help you just as I wish to help the rest of the city, but I cannot simply rely on reassurances that my efforts will not be in vain.”
“I can assure you, they won’t be—”
“What collateral would you offer?”
Simon looked him straight in the eye. “Collateral?” he asked.
“Yes. I must have leverage in order to ensure your compliance.”
“I’m not a dishonest man,” Simon replied.
“I do not doubt that,” Medill said. “But I cannot take any more risks than the banks can, or the government can, or anyone else can—”
“I understand, but—”
“And if I blindly offered you aid, who’s to say that others wouldn’t follow?”
Simon took a deep breath. “I’m willing to make whatever agreement I must,” he said. “But I haven’t much collateral to offer—”
“I wish you to make me a promise,” Medill said.
Simon paused and looked into Medill’s eyes.
“If all turns out as I expect, then the whole of the city— every refugee, every bum, and every filthy-rich businessman— will soon be in my charge. That’s a tremendous responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?”
Simon frowned. “I don’t understand,” he replied. “How would they be in your charge?”
“It takes strength and courage to bring a city back to its feet,” Medill said. “Mayor Mason is no example. The aldermen can overrule nearly anything he does, and he is anxious to end his tenure anyway, so we shan’t see new initiatives from him. An effective leader must yield far greater power, and must wield it more wisely.”
“Yes....”
“I want you to help me gain that power. It shan’t be too easy, but I think that’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”
Simon blinked. He was starting to feel uneasy. “What do you suggest?”
“I happen to be intrigued by your story of corruption.”
“Well—” Simon squirmed for a moment. He didn’t want to get involved in any intrigue, but he knew that he didn’t have much choice.
“I should like you to expand your investigation,” Medill said. “I should like to know every detail about the city council. We must know of any corrupt aldermen so that we may remove them from power. Understood?”
“Yes sir.” Simon got up to shake Medill’s hand. “Thank you so much—”
“Now wait,” Medill said. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve got something more to say.”
“Yes?”
Medill gave him a stern look. “If you fail to pay what is due,” he said, “I will have your hide. And I mean that in more ways than just one.”
SIMON’S BATTLE, HOWEVER, WAS NOT AT ALL OVER. Finding financing was only the first step in rebuilding. His next great challenge was to work out the logistics of construction, and to tackle his new assignment.
He arrived at Robert’s home well after the curfew. As soon as he stepped inside the door, he heard a familiar voice nearby. At first Simon thought he was hearing things; J.J.’s speech was so distinctive that Simon recognized it at once. For a moment, he thought his brother had come back to Chicago; but then he realized that the voice seemed a bit gravelly. Finally Simon came into the parlor, and he realized that the voice belonged to someone else.
“Father?” Simon asked. “I— well, I mean... w-what are you doing here?”
Elijah Caldwell had been talking to Lillian. He turned, saw his son, and rose from his chair. “Hello Simon,” he replied.
Simon rushed forward and put his arms around Elijah. “Oh Father,” he said, “I feared I’d never see you again— I’m so glad you’re here—” Then the tears welled up in his eyes, and he didn’t say anything more.
Elijah clutched his son tightly. “Thank heavens you’re safe,” he said, “for we were so afraid.”
“I’m sorry— I am— I didn’t mean for you to fear—”
Elijah pulled back and looked Simon in the eye. “Why my boy,” he said, “you seem a dozen years older.”
Simon snorted. “I love you too Father,” he said.
“Oh, but I didn’t mean—”
“What on Earth are you doing here?” Simon asked.
“You mean you don’t know?” Elijah asked. “Your mother told you I was coming.”
Simon wiped his eyes. “She did not,” he replied.
“Well, is it so terrible that I wished to reunite with my son?”
“I-I...” Simon swallowed. “Father, I assure you, I can handle myself on my own.”
Elijah nodded. “Is that so?” he asked. “Is that why you’re living in another man’s house, getting by with the help of mere strangers?”
Simon blinked. His father’s tone was kindly, but Simon couldn’t help feeling insulted. “Mere strangers?” he asked. “You haven’t the faintest idea what you say.”
“Simon—”
“I told you I can handle myself. Why do you never believe me?”
Elijah raised his eyebrows. “How, dare I ask, do you plan to do that?”
Simon didn’t feel like explaining himself, but at the same time, he didn’t want to fight with his father. And so he told him everything. He explained what had happened to his insurance, he spelled out the deal that he’d made with Medill, and he outlined precisely how the financing would work.
Elijah, however, was not terribly impressed. “I’d like to read this contract of yours,” he said.
“I never signed one,” Simon replied. “I told you, it’s nothing that I won’t be able to handle.”
“What? Did you put anything in writing at all?”
Simon shook his head. “No,” he replied.
“For heaven’s sakes, my son, what on Earth were you thinking?”
Simon ran his hands through his hair. “Father,” he said, “have you not listened to me?”
“You’ve just sold your soul to the devil!”
Simon stared at his father. “Perhaps I have,” he replied, “but I didn’t have a choice.”
DEACON BROSS, MEANWHILE, was still sending trainloads of carpetbaggers to Chicago. Simon couldn’t fathom where Bross was getting his energy, for Bross was just as badly off as everyone else. Still, for whatever reason, he wasn’t letting it bother him; and the result was that newcomers poured into the city.
In other parts of the country, the news was almost uniformly bad. An urgent dispatch had come in from California, where the village of Los Angeles had been torn apart in a race riot. No one seemed to know what had triggered the violence; as far as anyone could determine, a w
hite man had gotten caught in the crossfire between two rival Chinese gangs. By the time the fighting was over, the local Chinatown had been gutted, and nearly two dozen people were dead. It brought back memories of New York’s Irish riots, and it stoked fears of a general breakdown in order.
Chicago had been through such breakdowns before. When Know-Nothings tried to close its saloons, the German immigrants had protested, and a violent confrontation had ensued. The incident had become known as the Lager Beer Riot, and it had driven former Mayor Levi Boone from office. Now Chicago was once again sitting on a powder keg, for ethnic tensions had risen exponentially since.
The Germans, for their part, now lay crippled by the fire. Nearly all of their neighborhoods had been in the hard-hit North Side, so the majority of their population was homeless. Worse yet, there was now talk of building a freight district where their homes had once been. The Staats-Zeitung warned that machine shops, lumber depots, and mills might replace the “Germandom” of old.
The unrest was also clear in the Irish neighborhoods, since the Irish were all but being blamed for having started the fire. Newspapers and magazines ran drawings of Mrs. O’Leary, and in virtually all of them, she looked like a witch.
The Times was by far the most vengeful paper in town. It alleged that Mrs. O’Leary had cheated a government charity, and that when her fraud was discovered, she was expelled from the program. “The old hag swore that she would be revenged on a city that would deny her a bit of wood, or a pound of bacon,” wrote the Times. But in truth, the O’Learys had never received any government assistance, and the story was patently false.
The fact that the O’Leary home had survived, when so many others had burned, didn’t help. “There it stood safe, while a city had perished before it,” wrote the New York Tribune. “And there to this hour stands that craven little house, holding on tightly to its miserable existence.”
As if to verify the story, mysterious photographs began making the rounds. One picture showed the burned-out ruins of the barn. The O’Leary house was still standing in the background, and a crowd was eyeing the ruins. One onlooker was a cow, purportedly the same one that had ignited the blaze. Another photograph claimed to show Mrs. O’Leary and her cow— but the woman in the picture was not Mrs. O’Leary, and the animal was a longhorn steer, not a cow.
The real O’Learys could now barely even be found. They still lived in their DeKoven Street home, but they very rarely came out. Their lives had become crueler than ever before, as they struggled to evade reporters and sightseers and the like. They knew there had to be a way out of the nightmare— or at least so they hoped— but they had most certainly not found it yet.
EVEN MORE LITIGATION HAD NOW ARRIVED ON ROBERT’S DESK. As more companies went out of business, more lucrative cases began coming his way. But regardless of how much money he made, he felt it was business he’d rather not have.
Robert’s head was throbbing when he heard a knock at the door. He wiped his forehead, tried to clear his mind, and went to see who it was.
He was surprised to find Joseph Medill on his porch. “Good afternoon,” Medill said. “Is this now a good time?”
Robert blinked. Medill had never come to his home before. “Certainly,” he said. “Are you searching for Mister Caldwell?”
“No,” Medill said, “I have spoken to him quite a bit as it is.”
“Oh,” Robert said. “Well, come in, sit down. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you,” Medill said, “but I shouldn’t be too long. Is your mother at home?”
“She can’t come down at the moment,” Robert said. “If that’s the reason you’ve come—”
“It isn’t the reason, but I still haven’t seen her since her return to the city.” Medill saw the fear and guilt in Robert’s eyes. “I wish to discuss a political matter.”
Robert clenched his jaw. That was the last thing he wanted to discuss at that moment.
“It cannot have escaped your notice,” Medill said, “that we stand on the cusp of the November election. And yet, as of now, no campaigning has been done.”
“Well, under the circumstances, I hardly think—”
“I agree that the circumstances are critical,” Medill said. “What better time to change the course of this city?”
Robert frowned. “I am not quite sure what you’re saying,” he said.
“I would like to assemble a ticket,” Medill said, “comprised of all the best candidates of all stripes— Democrats, Republicans, and who-knows-who-else— with the goal of ensuring that no such disaster shall ever happen again. What say you?”
“Are you asking me to partake?” Robert asked.
Medill smiled, and his eyes brimmed with passion. “Just think of all the interest you could stir—”
“I’m sorry,” Robert said, “but I’ve many missions and responsibilities in life, and none of them include stirring interest in elections. And they most certainly do not include any campaigns for myself—”
“And if I asked you to campaign for me?” Medill asked.
Robert paused. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You mean you’re running for office yourself?”
Medill nodded. “I intend to be the Union-Fireproof candidate for mayor.”
“I see,” Robert said. He wasn’t terribly surprised; even though Medill was a charter Republican, he had never sought public office himself. Now he had been involved in Chicago politics for so long, and had such strong ideas about how to run the city, that it made sense for him to do it himself.
“Mister Medill,” Robert said, “I must say, politics are much more your arena than mine.”
“I would respectfully disagree with that,” Medill said.
“You may disagree, but—”
“Mister Lincoln,” Medill said, “come now. You must tell me: what can I do to help change your mind?”
ONE FLOOR ABOVE THEM, Mary had just left her bedroom for the first time in weeks. She stood in the hallway and listened to the men conversing downstairs. Her mouth watered at the thought of her son in public service. Mary had always wanted the Lincoln name to live on, and she never understood why Robert acted the way he did. Mary waited until Medill was gone; then she smoothed out her hair, straightened out her posture, and headed downstairs.
Robert was sitting by himself at the table. He seemed surprised when he saw her.
“M-mother,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
“I have heard your words,” she replied, “which you uttered when you did not know I was near.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping?” Robert asked. “Do you mean to say—”
“You were mocking the idea of being in any way connected with the government,” Mary said. “I do not know why you should shrink from an opportunity of improving our lot— so different from the lot your father would have assigned me.”
Robert groaned. “I could hardly believe it possible that you protest to me that you are in actual want,” he replied. “What can I say or do that will convince you to the contrary?”
“We are under many obligations to Medill for his frequent kindnesses to us,” Mary said. “Had he not lent his support, your exalted father would never have claimed the nomination— much less the Presidency—”
“Mother,” Robert said, “I cannot arrange my life around this—”
“I find nothing intrusive in suggesting your quiet perseverance and that of your influential friends in urging the claim of Medill, who is so worthy of being recognized by the electors. I believe you will have very little trouble in obtaining some position of eminence—”
“And if I don’t desire any position of eminence?” Robert asked.
Mary looked at him with a baffled expression. “I do not believe I am making a vain request of you,” she said. “It is, I believe, the very least you could do.”
AS SOON AS SIMON’S MONEY CAME IN, his first act was to hire a contractor to clear his property. He would have rather put off the task, but he knew it w
as something that had to be done, and he wanted to build his new home as quickly as he could. And so, that afternoon, two large carts pulled up along the street, and a few beer-bellied men fanned out across the site.
Simon brought his nephew out to see it. They both found the scene a bit difficult to watch. Tommy clutched his toy horse as the men dismantled his old home. The workers tore down the last remaining walls and beams, then chopped apart the burned timbers. As the men gathered up the wreckage, Simon felt a pang of nostalgia, and he mused he would give anything to go back to his old life.
By the end of the day, Simon’s lot was once again vacant. It sat in the midst of a desolate wasteland. The neighborhood looked much as it had months before, except that even its weeds were now gone. The only thing Simon could see was a tiny glint of silver, which turned out to be the remnants of his old candlesticks. He could still read their inscriptions— Évêque de Digne— although they were partially covered in soot.
“Look at these,” he told Tommy, “for they used to belong to your father. I never did understand how or where he’d acquired such finery— but I must admit I never asked.”
Tommy just stared. He didn’t understand why Simon seemed so wistful.
A short while later, the crew departed the site. The wagons made their way southward until they passed Union Depot. They turned left off Michigan Avenue, then crossed Lake Park and dumped the burned timbers into the water. Simon felt a cascade of emotions swirling through his body. Most of the wreckage sank within seconds; a few pieces floated on the surface, but then another wagon came and unloaded a pile of shattered bricks. With that, the last few bits of Simon’s home disappeared beneath the waves.
1871 Page 37