1871

by Peter J Spalding

  The same scene played out at dozens of spots along the shore. Hundreds of wagons were now hauling debris, and they stood lined up on the lakefront as far as the eye could see. They converged on the site from every part of Chicago, and they dumped so much rubble that the shoreline moved out further each day. Every load contained the remnants of broken lives, whether in the form of burned furniture, shattered timbers, or ravaged mementoes. And the wagons kept on coming, hour after hour after hour, carrying countless tons of material. No one still bothered to dig through the debris, since it was clear that nothing more could be salvaged. It was impossible to say how many people’s burned possessions had been dumped, just as it was impossible to say how much rubble remained throughout the city.

  Simon looked out at the water, then threw the burned candlesticks as far out as he could. Then, with a heavier heart than he’d ever felt before, he turned and led his nephew back to their wagon.

  WHEN SIMON ARRIVED HOME THAT NIGHT, he found his father still awake. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Simon asked.

  “Oh, I couldn’t go to bed now,” Elijah said, “not with you away—”

  “Come on, Father, I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Now Simon—”

  “I’m in no mood for a lecture. What is it?”

  “You told me your mother never warned you I was coming.” Elijah handed him a letter. “I found this on your dresser.”

  Simon shook his head as he took the letter in his hands. He could only vaguely remember having looked at the letter.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you never read what we sent you?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Simon told him, “for in the event you haven’t noticed—”

  “Well, read it now,” Elijah said. “Your mother misses you so.”

  Simon bit his lip. Then he tore open the letter and began to read:

  My dear Simon:

  Your letter was received, and I now sit to write you in return. In the days after the fire, we were quite disappointed in the non-arrival of your missives— I believe you had promised to send a letter a week, and here it had been two or three weeks since we last heard from you.

  Please endeavor to be more prompt in the future— oh! how we do long to see you. The year is almost round again when we last said goodbye. I wish I could picture to you faithfully the excitement in the village. You may have some idea of the words of our neighbors, but you can have little idea of the uproar and unanimity of the whole township in sending aid to Chicago. Nothing has been thought of— least of all at our home— except that one subject that now holds the world’s attention. In these uncommon times one cannot help feeling anxious about everyone, least of all an irreplaceable son.

  Your letter was encouraging but it would be more so if you were coming home. I think, could you but start on your return, it would revive your spirits at once. It would be better than medicine. In the meantime, I hope you will be comfortably housed and get enough to eat, for you must take care of your health. And you must watch yourself, for Tommy’s sake, for I know that when a man is young he does much that he ought not to do. You have taken lessons from your father how to set an example for children, and I pray your associates are all sober men.

  I fear you may not tell us when you are truly in need, and it is therefore proper for your father to see your situation in-person. He looks forward to your reunion as the happiest day of his life— oh how hard it is to be separated from a child at such a time—

  I shall attempt to send word when I know the time of his arrival. Meanwhile, I pray that God will watch over you and that your father may bring you home safe and sound.

  Now my darling, with a kiss I say goodbye—

  Your loving mother

  Mrs. E. C.

  Simon paused for a moment, then folded up the letter. “Now listen,” he said, “you do not understand.”

  “What is there to understand?” his father asked.

  “You still wish me to come home to Rhinebeck— where I would forever be known as the son of Elijah and Ethel?”

  “What, precisely, is the matter with that?”

  “I’m an adult,” Simon replied, “and I see no reason to justify myself. Here in Chicago, I have no such burdens— I can do whatever and be whomever I desire to be. You do not understand how liberating that is—”

  “You would do well to stop dreaming,” Elijah shot back. “Need I remind you that your dreams have been dashed? You must be realistic and grounded and wise—”

  “Oh, hogwash. Your idea of being grounded means doing the same thing every day, the same thing your father did before you, and the same thing his father did before him. Well, I’ll have none of that, I tell you— this world is changing, and I intend to be part of it, instead of spending my days cooped up in a godforsaken inn.”

  “Simon! How dare you take the Lord’s name in vain— and how dare you insult your family so?”

  Simon clenched his jaw, and his nostrils flared. “You’ve never understood,” he finally said. “Neither has Mother. You’ve never even tried to see it as I do.”

  “Why, that isn’t the case—”

  “Yes it is, Father, and you know I speak the truth. And why is that, precisely? For Gregory understood in a way you never have. As does Clara, and even misfit J.J., so don’t construe for so much as a moment that you could never make the effort.”

  “Simon,” Elijah said, “I have been on this Earth a bit longer than you. I know that you will succeed or fail according largely to luck.”

  “Now wait—”

  “When the current commotion is over, these Western cities will die, much as the gold rush towns have done in the past. Your land will become worthless, so you must sell your holdings quickly.”

  “Oh come now, Father,” Simon snorted. “You cannot tell me—”

  “You must listen to me,” Elijah said. “I have not forgotten how stubborn you are, so I am not so foolish as to assume you will immediately heed my advice. But it is my duty— as well as my right— to guide you and advise you as my own father once did.”

  "Is that so?” Simon asked. “Tell me then, Father: if you know so much, then what great accomplishments might you point to in life? What precisely have you done with your time on Earth?”

  Elijah looked as though he’d been slapped in the face. “I-I...” He swallowed. “I reared you and your siblings.”

  “But—”

  “You are my great accomplishment, Simon— and I take pleasure in telling every guest at my inn.”

  Simon paused. At first he was so surprised that he didn’t know what to say. “N-now wait,” he said, “you needn’t tell anyone—”

  “Someday, Simon, you will understand.”

  “Understand what?” Simon asked. “You didn’t rear us, Mother did. If you had even been the slightest bit attentive—”

  “Attentive? I most certainly was—”

  “You were attentive to your guests,” Simon snapped, “most of whom you’d never met before and would never meet again. And yet there I was, growing up under your roof, and I barely merited a thought.”

  “Oh, balderdash,” Elijah said. “Me, thoughtless? Think of all I taught you: prudence, temperance, responsibility—”

  “All of which made life in Rhinebeck even duller than necessary.” Simon leaned forward. “Why do you suppose I had to get away?”

  Elijah threw up his hands. “I don’t know, Simon, for nothing you do ever surprises me. I do know it was an unfortunate decision, and I believe that’s now clear—”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Father, stop insisting that you’re right, and just listen to me.”

  Elijah rolled his eyes. “All right,” he said, “very well. I’m listening.”

  Simon opened his mouth and tried to formulate his thoughts. He wanted to tell his father how he really felt, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t find the words.

  “I’m still listening,” Elijah said. He waited a moment longer, then crossed his arms. “So w
hat on Earth do you wish to discuss?”

  “Never mind,” Simon finally said. “What’s the use?”

  Elijah snorted. “And you wonder why I dislike hearing your complaints.”

  “Well, you won’t have to hear them for the rest of the night.” Simon got up from the table. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got work to do in the morning.”

  UNBEKNOWNST TO BOTH MEN, Robert was listening from the top of the stairs. He remembered having similar talks with his father, and he could only wish that he’d have such conversations again.

  Robert didn’t say a word as he retreated to his room. He didn’t want to admit it, but the past few days had dredged up all sorts of confusing feelings. With a sigh, he plopped onto his bed and stared at Mary Harlan’s nightstand. He couldn’t help noticing the book that sat atop her table: it was Leaves of Grass, which Hay had given him the year before.

  Robert picked up the book and perused it. He had never read Walt Whitman before, although he knew that Whitman had strongly supported his father. Robert couldn’t help wondering which of Whitman’s poems Mary Harlan had liked best. He feared that he might not truly know his wife as well as he had thought. Finally he came to a particularly worn page, and for the first time, Robert read the famous eulogy to his father:

  O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

  The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

  The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

  While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

  But O heart! heart! heart!

  O the bleeding drops of red,

  Where on the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

  Rise up— for you the flag is flung— for you the bugle trills,

  For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths— for you the shores a-crowding,

  For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

  Here Captain! dear father!

  This arm beneath your head!

  It is some dream that on the deck,

  You've fallen cold and dead.

  My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

  My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

  The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

  From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

  Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

  But I, with mournful tread,

  Walk the deck my Captain lies,

  Fallen cold and dead.

  Robert swallowed hard. The poem brought back the feelings of shock, heartbreak, and overall loss that he’d felt so acutely a few years before. Part of him still couldn’t believe that his father was gone, but another part wanted to make his father proud. Robert wasn’t quite sure how to do that, but he did know that life was terribly short, and he feared he had nearly forgotten about his wife and daughter.

  Finally Robert took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do. He closed the book, put it back on the nightstand, and headed for the Tribune.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Building Up of the New

  “What Chicago has been in the past, she must become in the future— and a hundredfold more!”

  — William “Deacon” Bross

  MEDILL’S CAMPAIGN KNEW THERE WAS NO TIME TO WASTE. The election was now just around the corner, so the politicking would have to be intense and decisive. Simon and Robert had now both pledged their support and vowed to do anything in their power to help. Naturally, the Tribune staff knew every ward boss and precinct captain in town; and one by one, all the local operatives were drawn into the effort.

  The campaign set up its headquarters in Haas and Powell’s Hall, a short distance away from the Tribune’s temporary office. As word of the Fireproof ticket made its way through the city, hundreds of people began attending its events. Simon’s life became more chaotic than ever, as he found himself simultaneously reporting and campaigning, to say nothing of the fact that he was planning his own rebuilding. The work was exhausting, but Simon found that he could do it, so long as he didn’t sleep more than three hours per night.

  The weather, however, had steadily worsened. The frigid November winds now went howling through the streets, and the clouds churned and darkened overhead. The rain turned to sleet, and the sleet turned to ice, but the activity in the streets hardly seemed to quiet down.

  Elijah Caldwell was baffled at the many things he saw. Up to that point, he had never ventured outside New York State. Now, as he walked with Tommy through the ruins, he couldn’t help being shocked— but also amazed— by the city’s sights and sounds.

  In Lincoln Park, tents were set up as far as the eye could see, each one housing a family of refugees. Children gathered up firewood while their fathers looked for work. Elijah saw a mother cooking with one hand and holding a baby with the other; the woman wore a diamond necklace, but her eyes were filled with steel.

  Elijah and Tommy passed the Water Tower, which still stood as proudly as ever. The Caldwells continued southward toward the heart of downtown. Armies of people were toiling over the area, and trolleys were once again running down State and Madison Streets. The skeleton of the Courthouse still loomed over the square, but its bell had been removed from its crater, and parts of the structure were being dismantled. A tangle of telegraph wires now hung over the sidewalks. Enterprising capitalists were setting up food carts with signs that read “This Way for Your Food and Hot Coffee.” And oddly enough, the contents of the grain elevators were still smoldering, and would continue to let off smoke for months.

  Writers and photographers were busy chronicling the scene. “Oh, it was an enlivening, and inspiring sight,” wrote Everett Chamberlain, “to look out each morning upon a brave wall of solid masonry, which one had not noticed before!— to watch the summits of those already risen, and see, perhaps relieved against the glow of a prairie sunset, the heroic platoons of workingmen building, building, building then still higher, and paying no heed either to approaching night or the benumbing chill of winter winds!... to mind the constant stream of vehicles that went plunging through the streets, like fire engines bent on saving a city from destruction; and, indeed, their errand was of equal moment— the building up of the New, since the Old could no longer be saved!”

  At Medill’s headquarters, however, Simon was as conflicted as ever. He watched the activity around him, and he listened to the boomers and boosters, and he wondered how much of that spirit would last through the winter. And he questioned if he would still be in Chicago to see it.

  Simon couldn’t help being angry at his father, for he couldn’t believe that Elijah had come to Chicago unbidden. In a way, Elijah’s presence seemed constricting— and in some ways enfeebling— although Simon didn’t dare admit it. On the other hand, his father’s company reassured him, especially after all Simon had been through.

  Simon’s own rebuilding was much easier said than done. In theory, it all seemed very simple. After all, Simon had already built his home once before, so he assumed he could just as well do it again. But he kept encountering problems he’d never considered before. All the city’s building supplies had now been exhausted; everything had to be shipped in from elsewhere, which almost instantly tripled the price. And the inclement weather brought its own set of problems: mortar couldn’t be allowed to freeze before it was set, since that could make it dangerously weak. Bricks would also be scarce in the coming months, as they could not be manufactured in below-freezing temperatures.

  Most importantly, the work could be downright hazardous. Simon knew of one man who had already died a horrible death. The man had been preparing to demolish the old Tribune building. He had been standing in nearly the same place where Simon had re-injured his leg; then the floor had collapsed, and the man had fallen three stories to the basement. In the process, an iron spike had severed his femo
ral artery, so the poor soul had bled to death before any help could arrive. Simon shuddered to think that the same thing might have happened to him.

  “Mister Caldwell!” came a voice, and Simon quickly looked up.

  G.P. English was striding across the hall, with Elijah and Tommy in tow. “You have visitors,” English said.

  Simon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, and English scurried away.

  “I have excellent news,” Elijah said. “I’ve been told that real estate prices have only risen since the blaze.”

  “Perhaps they have,” Simon replied, “but what on Earth has that to do with anything?”

  “Don’t you see?” his father asked. “You may sell your holdings now and come away with a profit—”

  “No,” Simon told him. “Do I seem like a speculator? A hustler? Is my name C.V. Dyer?”

  “Who is Dyer?” Elijah asked.

  “Never you mind,” Simon snapped. “The point is that I bought that land for myself. So if that’s the reason you’ve come—”

  “You know why I’ve come,” Elijah said. “I didn’t journey all this way to be apart from my boy.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. “Father,” he said, “can you not see how very busy I am?”

  “So you are too busy for your own father?” Elijah asked. “And what of your nephew?”

  “Listen,” Simon snapped, “I have no intention of repeating myself— particularly when you intend not to listen.” He was going to say something more, but he felt a nagging doubt, so he forced himself to be quiet.

  “Someday,” Elijah said, “you will regret this. And when you do, you mustn’t say I didn’t warn you enough.”

  Simon bit his lip. “Believe me,” he said, “I most certainly won’t.”

  LILLIAN, MEANWHILE, was working as hard as everyone else. But her successes were marginal at best. No matter how hard she tried to rebuild her father’s business, she kept running into a plethora of problems. Many of her father’s key employees were gone— having either left the city, or found employment someplace else— and Lillian struggled to replace their expertise. To make matters worse, the market for their clothing had all but collapsed, for no one wanted to buy brand-new clothes at that point. Most refugees were wearing secondhand items, and they could afford nothing more. Eastern manufacturers were serving whatever little demand was left.