1871

by Peter J Spalding

  Borusewicz unwrapped the package and looked through its contents. Lillian pursed her lips but didn’t say a word. Finally Borusewicz looked up. “I thought you’d sworn to rebuild,” he said.

  “I thought so too,” she replied. In truth, Lillian hated the thought of abandoning her father’s life’s work, but she told herself that she had little choice.

  “You’re sure you wish to sell the company?” Borusewicz asked. “After all your father has done?”

  “I’m sure,” Lillian said. “But you mustn’t draw things out, for I must be at the depot in an hour.”

  Borusewicz nodded. Lillian held her breath as he signed the deed, and with a stroke of a pen, the assets of the Andrist Textile Company changed hands.

  “So there we are,” Borusewicz said.

  Lillian nodded. She wanted to say something meaningful, to acknowledge the fact that a stage of her life had now ended. But she found herself at a loss.

  “I have but one question,” Borusewicz finally said. “The papers in the safe— there seemed to be more than just this.”

  “Yes,” Lillian said, “but those belonged to my fathe’s personal effects.” She held out her hand. “So long, Miste’ Borusewicz. I shall be forever grateful for your help.”

  Borusewicz nodded. “Likewise,” he replied, and he didn’t say anything more.

  AT ROBERT’S HOUSE, TOMMY WAS QUIETLY TELLING HIS STORY. He struggled to articulate what had happened; he stumbled over words, and he jumped from one subject to another in his usual three-year-old way. But his general ideas were quite clear.

  Simon couldn’t believe he had never heard this tale before. As he listened, he felt his blood pressure rise, and he struggled to control himself. He’d had no idea that he’d left Tommy to fend for himself. He had always accused J.J. of being irresponsible, but in a way this was worse, because Simon had done it at the worst possible time. By the time Tommy had finished, Simon felt as though he were ready to burst.

  “My word,” Elijah said.

  Simon scoffed and knelt down to his nephew. “Tommy, I’m sorry. I never should have left you with that imbecilic boy, and I’m sorry I didn’t know, if only you had told me—” Then he stopped in mid-sentence and clutched his nephew tightly.

  “Now don’t make a fool of yourself,” Elijah said.

  Simon bit his lip and shook his head. Tommy struggled against Simon’s grip for a moment, then stopped. “I need to know precisely what happened,” Simon finally replied, “not just to Tommy, but to everyone— for I don’t wish to leave hidden any other unpleasant surprises.”

  “Simon—”

  “I mean it, Father. I cannot allow such a thing to ever go unnoticed— nor I allow it to ever happen again.”

  AND SO SIMON’S INVESTIGATION BEGAN. He was determined to unearth every little detail of the fire, no matter what the cost.

  He started by interviewing Marshal Williams and Assistant Fire Marshal Benner; the Tribune published the story under the headline “BORING FOR FACTS.” The article dominated the front page, and Simon followed up two days later with additional details. “Boring for Facts” became a series, in which he published as many interviews as he could get. His work quickly became the talk of the town, for Simon was not the only one desperate to learn what had happened.

  But, try what he might, there were certain things he never did find out. He wanted to know what had happened to Fletcher, but he was nowhere to be found. John Drake reported hearing that he’d gone to San Francisco, but G.P. English claimed that Fletcher had headed back to New York. To Simon, it was just as well. In truth, he had no desire ever to see Fletcher again, not after everything that had happened.

  ROBERT, MEANWHILE, WAS MAKING ARRANGEMENTS TO MOVE TO A NEW OFFICE. He would once again have a firm of his own, although he hoped to soon partner with another Harvard man, Edward Isham. The new office was on Congress Street, just across from the burnt district, a stone’s throw away from where Terrace Row had once been.

  He was talking to J. Young Scammon when a courier handed him a letter. Robert frowned; he didn’t know what to make of it at first. Then he opened the letter and recognized Lillian’s hand:

  Robert:

  By the time you read this, I shall be on my way home to Maine. You must excuse my departing unannounced, but I acted on principle. It is very hard work to think or write concerning that subject on which I’ve paused so long.

  When I came to you I did not intend to complicate anything, but unconsciously I did, and it was hard work to let go of it. You stand on the brink of a glorious future, which must be preserved at all costs. I do not expect ever to meet you again, but I do hope you remember to love all as you should, and serve your country in whichever way may be your lot.

  My departure from Chicago is not so very pleasant, but I accept it because it is for the best and it is the duty of us all, to be sober, honest, and industrious at all times.

  Enclosed are my father’s last papers. Please give them to Simon. He will know what they are.

  Regards forever, I remain—

  L.

  P.S.: Mr. Hay told me to assure you that your mother’s letters remain in his possession. He won’t reveal them to anyone— he simply wants them to be safe. He hopes you will thank him or at least forgive him someday.

  Robert gritted his teeth. The last part was what rankled him the most. “Damn it, John,” he said.

  Scammon tried to gauge the look on Robert’s face. “Mister Lincoln?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  Robert shook his head. Then he crumpled the letter and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “It no longer matters. You must pay it no mind.”

  SIMON’S “BORING FOR FACTS” SERIES WAS NOW THE TALK OF THE TOWN. And, at long last, it had spurred the city bureaucracy into action. The Board of Police and Fire Commissioners had opened an inquiry, although it was hardly a glamorous affair. It took place in a police interrogation room in the surviving Second Precinct Station. The Board had called a number of witnesses who had seen the blaze early on, including William Brown, Mathias Schaefer, William Musham, Peg Leg Sullivan, and of course the O’Learys. But none of them shed light on how the fire had started.

  The Board vowed to keep going, so it subpoenaed a number of firemen. But their testimony was superfluous at best, since they simply confirmed what everyone already knew.

  “Was the air very hot?” one commissioner asked.

  “Was the wind blowing pretty strong?” asked another.

  The strangest question of all went to Marshal Williams: “Is it dangerous to go near a falling wall without a fire hat?”

  “Yes sir,” was Williams’s response, “dangerous when there is bricks and others falling.”

  Simon found himself quickly fed up. He had planned to write detailed summaries of each witness’s testimony; but now he decided that he really needn’t bother. He summed up the testimony of fireman George Dorset in a single flippant sentence: “He did not know much about the fire, except that it was a pretty big one.”

  The other reporters in attendance had also lost their patience. The Times referred to the Board as the “Smelling Committee.” The Evening Journal wrote that “the Commissioners are sick of the whole thing.”

  Some of the coverage was downright sarcastic. “Some valuable information is being elicited by the 'investigation' into the causes of the great fire,” one reporter quipped. “For example, one of the witnesses— a volunteer fireman— solemnly testifies that he heard Fire Marshal Williams exclaim, right in the midst of the excitement, 'Charley, it's hot!' and that he thought the Fire Marshal spoke the truth. This valuable testimony will go far towards clearing up the mystery. It settles one stupendous fact that had been half-suspected before— to wit, that the fire was hot! Now if the 'investigation' will only settle one other fact, it may adjourn— to wit: why it came to be so very hot."

  In all, the inquiry produced nearly twelve hundred pages of testimony, most of which was useless.
But the Board finally agreed that the O’Learys had done nothing wrong. On December 11, the commissioners issued their report, in which the family was cleared of any neglect or wrongdoing:

  The Board find that the fire originated in a two-story barn in the rear of No. 137 DeKoven street, the premises being owned by Patrick Leary... There is no proof that any persons had been in the barn after nightfall that evening. Whether it originated from a spark blown from a chimney on that windy night, or was set on fire by human agency, we are unable to determine. Mr. Leary, the owner, and all his family prove to have been in bed and asleep at the time.

  Beyond that, the report lacked any real insights. The last part was mostly finger-pointing, and the Tribune printed it under the heading “WE TOLD YOU SO”:

  The Board of Police have, year by year, in annual reports to the Mayor and Common Council, endeavored to point out the great defects in the manner in which our city was being built up. We advised and entreated to have much greater fire limits established before such an immense amount of combustibles were piled around the heart of the city. We reported Mansard roofs and tar roofs to be unsafe; that the water supply was insufficient; that our fire hydrants were twice too far apart; that we ought to have fire department cisterns at the intersection of the streets, so that we should always have water at fires; that we ought to have floating fire engines with powerful pumps in the river....

  None of these things were noticed by the Mayor, Common Council or the newspapers, no heed being paid to our suggestions so far as any change or improvement of our plan of extinguishing fires was concerned, the only thing we could do was to ask for an increase in the number of engine companies, so that we might be prepared as well as possible to contend with the great fires to which we were and still are liable.

  And with that, the official investigation was over. The precise cause of the fire would never be known.

  IN THE MIDST OF ALL THAT, MEDILL WAS SWORN IN AS CHICAGO’S TWENTY-FIRST MAYOR. Simon and Robert watched the ceremony together. As Medill shook hands with his constituents, he gave off the air of a natural politician. Even Robert couldn’t help but be impressed. Then Medill headed for the podium and started his speech.

  “I have been called to the head of the city government under extraordinary circumstances,” he said. “A few weeks ago our fair city, reposing in fancied security, received a fearfully tragic visitation from fire, which in a few brief but awful hours, reduced a large portion thereof to ashes, cinders, and smoke— consuming one grand division, leaving but a fragment of another, and inflicting an ugly wound on the third. In a single night and day one hundred twenty-five thousand of our people were expelled from their homes and compelled to flee for their lives.”

  Simon crossed his arms as he listened. He didn’t need to be told how calamitous the fire had been. He was thinking of how else he might strengthen Medill’s grip on power. He had been reading through the papers that Lillian had left behind, and he was finally convinced that the rumors of corruption were true. James Hildreth turned out to be one of the worst offenders; Dyer had bribed him several times in return for preferential treatment. Simon was now mounting a whole new crusade against graft, and he vowed not to stop until Chicago’s government was cleaned up for good.

  “I point with pride and admiration,” Medill continued, “to the gigantic efforts our whole people are putting forth to rise from the ruins and rebuild Chicago. The money value of their losses can hardly be calculated. But who can compute the aggregate of anguish, distress, and suffering they have endured and must yet endure? These wounds are still sore and agonizing, though they have been greatly alleviated by the prompt, generous, and world-wide charities that have been poured out for their succor and relief; and I claim in their behalf that they are showing themselves worthy of the benefactions received. They have faced their calamity with noble fortitude and unflinching courage. Repining or lamentation is unheard in our midst, but hope and cheerfulness are everywhere exhibited and expressed. All are inspired with an ambition to prove to the world that they are worthy of its sympathy, confidence and assistance, and to show how bravely they can encounter disaster, how quickly repair losses, and restore Chicago to her high rank among the great cities of the earth.

  “Happily there is that left which fire cannot consume: habits of industry and self-reliance, personal integrity, business aptitude, mechanical skill, and unconquerable will. These created what the flames devoured, and these can speedily recreate more than was swept away. Under free institutions, good government, and the blessings of Providence, all losses will soon be repaired, all misery caused by the fire assuaged, and a prosperity greater than ever dreamt of will be achieved in a period so brief, that the rise will astonish mankind even more than the fall of Chicago.”

  THE SEASON’S FIRST SNOWSTORM HIT CHICAGO ON CHRISTMAS EVE. Simon awoke the next morning to find snowdrifts in the streets. The city had suddenly fallen silent for the first time since the fire. There were now no construction workers toiling over the ruins. There were no carriages clattering down the streets, and there were no children playing out of doors.

  As Simon looked at the landscape, he couldn’t help thinking of the Christmases he’d known before. Rhinebeck had always celebrated in its own provincial way. Simon’s memories were full of snowmen, horses pulling sleighs, and quaint little festivals. The village Christmas services had always been held at a farm; the farmer would create a nativity scene with a real barn, real animals, and a real manger. When Simon was a boy, his infant brother J.J. had once portrayed the baby Jesus; then, a generation later, little Tommy had played the same role. But now even that seemed to be part of the distant past. Simon couldn’t help thinking of how far he’d come since then— after all, his Christmas in Chicago could hardly be more different.

  “Simon,” Robert said as they sat down for their dinner, “I must ask you for assistance. I do not know if you remember, but you had once promised that my support would be rewarded.”

  “I remember,” Simon replied. “I must say, now that you’ve given us shelter, I’m not sure how I can repay—”

  “I only want one reward,” Robert said. “Your father has purchased you a train ticket home. Now I must ask you honestly: have you any intention of going?”

  Simon was tempted to say yes, but he didn’t. “I am staying in Chicago,” he replied.

  Robert gave him a sheepish look. “Would you be terribly upset if I used that ticket?” he asked. “W-well, that is— with all of the holiday travel, I’ve been unable to book a trip back to the East Coast—”

  “You needn’t explain yourself to me,” Simon replied. “I already understand.”

  Robert nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  The men fell silent as Elijah entered the room, and Tommy climbed into his chair. The table was surprisingly empty; turkeys and hams were scarce in Chicago, but Elijah had found a German peddler selling produce on the street, and he had bought the man’s entire stock of potatoes. By normal standards, it wasn’t much, but no one was about to complain.

  “I propose,” Elijah said, “that we let Mister Lincoln say grace.”

  Robert blinked in surprise, then gave a slow nod. “Of course,” he replied. Then he clasped his hands, bowed his head, and gave a blessing that he had heard many times before.

  “We have been the recipients of the choicest bounties of heaven,” Robert said. “But we have forgotten God. We have forgotten the gracious hand which preserved us in peace and multiplied and enriched and strengthened us, and we have vainly imagined, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, that all these blessings were produced by some superior wisdom and virtue of our own. Intoxicated with unbroken success, we have become too self-sufficient to feel the necessity of redeeming and preserving grace, too proud to pray to the God that made us.”

  “Amen,” Elijah said.

  Simon looked up. He knew that Robert had taken the quote from his father. Simon was tempted to say something, but then he decided it wasn’t the right
time. “Amen,” Simon finally said.

  THAT NIGHT, WHILE EVERYONE WAS ASLEEP, Robert wandered through the rooms of his house. Most of the refugees had left— the Caldwells were the only ones who remained— so it felt a bit strange to have the house so quiet again.

  Robert turned to his right, where a closet door was ajar. It was the same closet where he had once kept the Insanity File. Then Robert went to his coat rack, pulled Lillian’s letter from his pocket, and strode over to his fireplace.

  Robert took a deep breath and knelt before the hearth. The flames sputtered and sizzled and let off the occasional spark. Robert paused and felt the reassuring warmth of the fire before him. Then he held up the letter and dropped it into the flames. The paper curled and turned brown, and Lillian’s scrawl disappeared. A small tongue of fire licked up for a moment. Then, at long last, the letter crumbled into ash.

  “Robert?” came a voice.

  Robert turned around to see his mother behind him. Robert froze for a moment; then he quickly stood up. “Merry Christmas Mother,” he said.

  Mary kept her distance from the fire. “I understand you intend to go to Washington?” she asked.

  “I do,” Robert said. “But you needn’t get any ideas. There will never be another President Lincoln... not in any sense of the term.”

  “But then why—”

  “I am going to the capital for one reason only,” Robert said. “I must give my wife some overdue attention before she slips away for good. And this is a task at which I must not fail.”

  “What? You must not leave me!” Mary said.

  “Mother, I’m sorry,” Robert said. “But... well, you must understand, I have now missed Christmas with my family. Can you imagine how that feels?”

  “Now Robert,” Mary said, “am I not of your family?”