A voice inside him yelled “Madness, madness” but he did not care. Let Reverend Porter denounce him from his pulpit for as long and as loudly as he wanted. Nothing Reverend Porter said could touch him here. It was like being drunken, this sensation that overwhelmed him. His movements were not his own. Another voice warned he was making a catastrophic mistake, that this would bring his friendship with Miss Chappell to an end, a lost friendship as irretrievable as time, and that from this moment on she would know him for what he was and shun him. She would know that lurking beneath a veneer of principles and good intentions was a man not fueled by nobility and love for our Lord, but a common, lustful beast.
The flames filled him with hope, the rain pummeled down, they were safe in a world of their own, filled with sighs of damp cloth and a clammy warmth, and his mouth was pressing down toward hers. He couldn’t stop himself. She would slap him, push him away, and never speak to him again. Reverend Porter would be able to crow that he was right about him, after all. And there was only one thing he would cry out in his defense. That he was drunken, not on whiskey, but on love itself.
1835
FAREWELL, CHICAGO
Chicago
February 15, 1835
My dear F____,
Apologies for such a long silence. I am glad to say my news is better. The sickness to which you referred in your last letter is over. You may have heard reports from others that exaggerate the extent of my suffering. I have never been as frail a plant as I look. And though I had bilious complaints, and was laid low by fevers and agues, I told anyone who would listen that they should not grieve for me because it was not I who suffered, only my body. The truth is that I knew something the doctors did not. The sudden chill I contracted was no ordinary winter malady.
I have sinned, and that sin is too grave to be put down in writing, even to you.
* * *
February 16
I have lain awake all night, wondering how to continue. You and I have pledged absolute honesty between ourselves for as long as we shall live, and have sworn never to hold secrets from each other. And yet, I hesitate. I am seeking the courage to fulfill my side of that bargain. And I fear that if I find it, you may choose never again to call me your cousin or friend.
But I must try.
The truth is that in those few moments beside the fire with Mr. W I lost my senses. I suspect he did too. I allowed him to go too far. Only by the grace of our Lord, before all was lost, did an angel hasten to my side. I covered myself, and he drew back.
No wonder, then, that I fell sick. The doctors expected me to die. They thought the chill that had waylaid me was as natural as it was deadly. But I knew this to be punishment. I have prayed and begged for His Forgiveness and Mercy, as I have never begged before in my life.
My hope is that you, dear F____, may take pity on me and forgive me my sin too, and advise me on how best to make amends.
Your sister-in-Christ,
Eliza Chappell
* * *
Chicago
March 10, 1835
My dear F____,
Your letter dated February 27 has brightened my day. I do not know what I have done to deserve such a loyal friend and confidante. Your forgiveness, so generously given, means everything to me. But it would be duplicitous to pretend that the views you express about Mr. W have not caused me considerable unease.
First, though, let me reassure you that I have held nothing back about what transpired between us that afternoon. To put the matter with as much delicacy as I can manage, we went farther than we should have done in our displays of affection for each other, but I promise you we did not go too far. I should also make clear, if I did not do this with sufficient emphasis in my last letter, that—for my sins—I consider myself as responsible as Mr. W for what happened.
Regarding your advice that I should carry on as normal, I am pleased to say that—apart from the break occasioned by my illness—I have not missed a single day at school. I am thrilled by the new schoolhouse. Never have I taught in a place its equal. Mr. W’s mother, recently arrived in Chicago, is helping me. She is a fine lady of strong and liberal views who has a special way with the children. They adore her. As you know, this is the worst time of year, the Lake is frozen, the skies are gray and everyone is suffering from the cold weather and poor diets and short days. The children are often sickly but how effectively does the schoolroom’s cozy fire, together with ample sustenance for their inquiring minds, distract them from their privations and ailments.
My concern, then, is over the advice you give regarding Mr. W and his most recent proposal for my hand in marriage. I confess it was a surprise to hear that you are in favor of his suit, given the way in which I have represented him to you, warts and all. Although you are correct to say he has many fine qualities to commend him and that, were we to be joined in partnership through life, I might be able to smooth some of his rougher edges and “bolster his moral resolve,” I remain troubled by the same doubts I have expressed to you previously.
The truth, dear F____, is that whatever the stirrings in my heart, I have not yet felt an assent to a union with Mr. W in my soul, from on High, from Our Lord. If I do indeed “have destiny with Mr. W,” as Mrs. Eulalie put it (a view with which I now understand you would concur), and if my heart is indeed his, why will my soul not give its unconditional assent?
Your sister-in-Christ,
Eliza Chappell
* * *
Chicago
March 23, 1835
My dear F____,
In brief and in haste and in wonder, I have the most extraordinary and joyful news to impart. This morning, after the church service, my old friend and the noblest, most determined man I have ever met, Reverend Jeremiah Porter, called me into the vestry. Bending down on one knee, he offered me his hand in marriage.
I am delighted to report that I accepted.
The proposal did not, I hasten to add, come without prior advertisements, even though I failed to recognize them properly for what they were. I apologize, dear F____. I should have prepared you better for this news, but after sharing my enthusiasms and fears with you about Mr. W at such length, I felt it would be speculation inviting hubris to speak in a similar vein of Rev. Porter. I noticed his attentions these past few weeks, but I never imagined where they might lead. I did not dream such a union might be in the Lord’s plan for such a wretched sinner as I.
And yet it has come to pass.
I will write again at the earliest opportunity, and tell you everything. Until then, let us heartily rejoice.
Your sister-in-Christ,
Eliza Chappell
* * *
Rochester, NY
June 22, 1835
My dear F____,
It is done. I am happy to report that one week previous, on June 15, I was wed to Reverend Jeremiah Porter. I know you may still harbor misgivings about the news, but I hope you will be able to put those aside and share in my joy. I am happier, today, than I have ever felt in my life. Although I do not deserve it, the Lord has granted me the greatest of blessings. The reverend is caring, incorruptible and devout, and I shall quickly learn to love him to the full. We are to travel soon to New England to visit my husband’s family before we return to Chicago, where there remains much work for us to do.
Your sister-in-Christ,
Mistress Eliza Porter
* * *
Chicago
August 1, 1835
My dear F____,
I do not know what I would do if I could not confide in you. Something has happened. Perhaps it is only a small thing of no account that will pass soon enough, and yet it troubles me.
Let me work my way gently toward what I must tell you. When we returned from the East three weeks ago, we found Chicago in a state of giddy chaos. Land fever was worse than ever, the town was full of speculators and sharpers, and as if that weren’t enough, it was also inundated by Potawatomie Indians, allegedly five thousand strong. Th
ey are preparing for their official departure, bound for a new reservation in Missouri. You see them gathered in groups about town clad in bright blankets and breechcloths, or raising a rumpus in their camps, which run in a swath beyond the town across the prairies, a vast sprawl of crude huts and wigwams peopled by braves and their squaws, by young and old, by dogs and horses. Each day, they feast at the expense of the government. I regret that whiskey is always made available to them, as I hear was also the case when they were pressed to sign the treaty two years previous.
I have visited these temporary encampments. The Indians are often tipsy, there are frequent arguments and I expect a good number find oblivion long before night falls. They amuse themselves with gaming and horse races and dancing around great fires that are probably visible as far away as Detroit. I have suggested the reverend establish a mission among them, but he judges (correctly, I do not doubt) that this is neither the time nor the place to embark on such a challenge. His preference is to support an outpost in China.
I have not, I think, mentioned Mr. Gutzlaff before? He is an intrepid explorer who has, according to my dear husband, “crumbled down the Wall of China” and thereby opened up a new world for our church. I believe that we are all—white, Indian, Negro, Chinese—equal before the Lord. So although I do not doubt the need to raise funds for Mr. Gutzlaff’s mission in China, I also wonder whether we should not raise monies for our benighted neighbors whose land was taken from them, after being encouraged—while intoxicated—to sign bills of sale for millions of acres, in the name of progress and civilization. Believe me, this is the truth of what happened, dear F____, whatever the “official” version of that transaction may be. I believe there is a profound contradiction between the theory and practice of our government. On the one hand we argue that might does not justify right, while on the other we use that same might (and other deceitful devices) to attain our ends when the public good is supposed to require it.
To return to Mr. Gutzlaff. My husband arranged a gathering in church for the Sewing Society to raise funds for Mr. Gutzlaff’s Chinese mission. We were selling items mostly of cotton and calico, such as scarves and napkins and tablecloths, embroidered by Society members. Also included for sale were sundry other items that people were happy to donate for the cause. I chose to contribute the silver-plated watch that Mr. W gave me, when we first became acquainted. For some time I had been looking for a suitable opportunity to dispose of it, given my altered circumstances.
It must have been mid-afternoon and I was weary after spending hours on my feet, when I realized that none other than Mr. W himself was standing across from me. I had not seen him arrive and believe me, dear F____, I was not expecting him to come there. Since our return to Chicago, I had not set eyes on him. And if I had thought there was the slightest possibility he would attend, I would never have put that watch on sale.
My dear husband was standing beside me. I could neither remove the watch nor say it was no longer available. Though he is the most kindhearted of men, I feared Reverend Porter would be perplexed and disappointed if I were to take it back. He had already commended my willingness to part with such a valuable article so that souls in far-off China might be saved.
Mr. W greeted us with a little bow. I avoided his eye and listened to a civil but awkward exchange between the two of them. Mr. W had, of course, seen the watch at once. Picking it up, he examined it as though for the first time. He read aloud the Latin inscription.
“Ovid,” said my husband.
“Virgil,” Mr. W corrected him. “An interesting passage in the Georgics,” he added, while withdrawing a purse from his pocket. A large number of bills, and coins too, tumbled onto the table. “Time may be irretrievable,” he said, smiling awkwardly, “but the same cannot be said for this watch.”
He proceeded to scoop up the timepiece and drop it into his pocket. At last, our eyes met. How do I describe the distressed, regretful look that I saw in Mr. W’s gaze? His feelings, I had no doubt, came straight from the heart. I realized that, despite my marriage and months of absence, Mr. W’s affection for me remained undimmed.
When he left, Mr. W probably tipped his hat and bade us farewell, but of this I have no recollection.
Were I able to stop this account now, perhaps no harm would have been done. The truth, though, was that I became aware of a reciprocal stirring in my own heart. Old feelings and memories resurfaced. Dark thoughts assailed me. Might I have made a terrible mistake? My disquiet lasted only a moment and was swiftly quashed. But why should it have occurred at all?
“That man is an enigma,” I heard my husband remark, as he counted the great sum of money Mr. W had left on the table. The Sewing Society raised almost $150 at the event, of which Mr. W. contributed more than $90. He has never been the kind of man to flaunt his wealth in such a vulgar fashion. Why, then, did he leave such an extravagant donation?
Your sister-in-Christ,
Mistress Eliza Porter
* * *
Chicago
August 13, 1835
My dear F____,
Such an explanation would never have occurred to me, and yet it seems plausible. You are right. Mr. W did look nervous; his manner was indeed strange. The only reason I did not notice this at the time was that he caught me by surprise. Even so, I confess another part of me doubts it can be true that Mr. W is still so enamored of me that he should suffer from what you call “a dizzy spell of the infatuated,” rendering him unconscious of his behavior to the extent that he can empty out his purse without thinking.
Your sister-in-Christ,
Mistress Eliza Porter
* * *
Chicago
August 23, 1835
My dear F____,
We are leaving tomorrow for Hadley, Illinois, where cousins of my husband reside. I have decided to remain there until a new position has been found for Rev. Porter. You—and you alone—will understand why we are moving, if I tell you that, buried deep within my heart, an old wound still festers. Absence, I believe, is its best cure, and for this reason I have suggested to my husband that we leave Chicago. I suspect he is under the impression that I remain worried about the possibility of trouble and—unfairly, I know—I have chosen not to deny this. I am not proud of myself, dear F____. I will write to you again on this matter, when I am more composed.
This letter concerns our friend Mrs. Eulalie …
It was a warm, sultry morning, with very little breeze, for the Potawatomies’ “Dance of Departure.” Eliza joined Mrs. Eulalie in her room at the Sauganash Hotel, from where there would be a good view of the route. Since Eliza’s return, they had rekindled their friendship. Mrs. Eulalie, too, was about to leave Chicago. She was returning to St. Charles.
“I’ve decided not to keep the painting of the old house. I don’t want the memories.”
“Shall I return it to Mr. Wright for you?”
“In person?”
Eliza feared she might blush. She knew Mrs. Eulalie, like dear F____, did not wholeheartedly approve of her marriage. “I shall ask Mr. Beaubien to give it to him.”
Mrs. Eulalie opened the window, and they stood side by side, looking out. The sky was almost colorless, the sunlight was so intense. The river looked brown and sluggish and close, while the Lake beyond seemed to have distanced itself, rimmed by a halo of summer heat that blurred the surface with a silver haze.
“I don’t know what I was expecting to find here,” said Mrs. Eulalie, “except old memories that should be left where they lie. I should’ve spoken about what happened a long time ago, not trapped it inside. That only makes the heart turn small and cold.”
“Though I’m not convinced you have yet told me everything?” Eliza tried, gently.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”
From beyond the river, came the sound of drumbeats.
“Drums make me nervous,” said Eliza. “They seem to summon up the dark side of the human soul. Which reminds me”—she reached into her bag—�
�this is for you. I hope that you might choose to read it one day.” She placed the leather-bound Bible on the table, beside the jars of colored ointments.
“It’s a pretty binding. I thank you but it ain’t for me, Miss Chappell, and you know it.”
Eliza would not be discouraged. “I don’t know what it is you cannot tell me, my dear Mrs. Eulalie. But I promise you there are things that hurt me, too. And when that hurt becomes too much, and if I cannot bring myself to talk about it, I read the Book. There is a magnificent passage in Ecclesiastes. It always helps. ‘For the Lord is full of compassion and mercy, long-suffering, and very pitiful, and forgiveth sins.’”
“You are a good woman, Mistress Porter,” said Mrs. Eulalie, “and I shall miss you.” She handed over a gift of her own, tied with string. “For your back,” she said. “Elk root essence and alcohol.”
They leaned out the window for a better vantage point. On the far side of the river came their first sighting of painted braves. Even from a distance, there was something menacing in their movements. They took slow and fitful steps, they writhed and coiled like snakes, they paused every few yards to bend their knees and leap into the air. The drums grew louder, like a roll of thunder, and this percussion was accompanied by blood-curdling shrieks, each wave of noise made yet more terrifying by the way in which the braves clapped their mouths repeatedly with the palm of one hand. Silence had come over the Sauganash. This spectacle is godless and terrifying, thought Eliza, and coming ever closer. We are warriors, we shall cut you down, we shall grant you no mercy. It felt as though the drums were sounding their death knell, that this “departure” from Chicago might be nothing of the kind. She took hold of Mrs. Eulalie’s hand, which seemed remarkably cool and fresh compared to her own.
The braves began to cross the bridge, hundreds of them. The timbers shook beneath their stamping feet as they wound their way over the water. The road coughed up clouds of red dust. Even the greatness of the Lake seemed diminished by their presence. This is like a tight-loaded spring, thought Eliza. Release the tension, and hell will break loose in our midst. In a single fusillade of blows, the braves will strike us down. She glanced at Mrs. Eulalie. Is this how it had felt, all those years ago, as they departed from Fort Dearborn? Did this resemble the prologue to that slaughter? If so, she was not showing it. On the surface, at least, she looked eerily tranquil.
Make Me a City Page 10