Mary Mother! King of the Angels! God of the Miracles!
We dropped to our knees and prayed. Even the day’s setting sun fell down dead in the little valley and bled all over the terrifying brightness of the clochan.
* * *
So be it, I am done. My tale about Mochta is over and the bottle is empty. You can put down what I’ve told you as you will, and I’ll be none the wiser. But I tell you this. When brothers are torn apart, the one that’s left behind has to go on alone and so it’s been for me. I’ve spent half my life dragging the weight of the world behind me, for the loss of that great ruffian has never left me, nor will it ever, even if I live to be a hundred.
The money went into the bank in Oscar’s name. I never dug another ditch in my life. It is almost like the old days, except that I’m on my own. And, believe me, no man was ever born to be that. I rise early in the mornings to fish, but I don’t go on the spring tide to Inishvickillaun to hunt seals or drag my seine net for shoals around Inishtooshkert. Instead, I paddle across the waters of Lake Michigan in search of brown trout and king salmon. And I think endlessly about what I drove my brother to do, and what it was for.
I know that if anything good ever comes out of this tragedy, it must come from Oscar.
You’ve not yet heard enough? You want me to speak of Oscar too? Then you’d better bring out another bottle, my friend, and hoist this old man on the pig’s back because that’s another bitter tale to tell.
1850
THE LOBBYIST
Extract from Chicago: An Alternative History 1800–1900 by Professor Milton Winship, University of Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co., 1902
AS WE CONTINUE our leisurely journey through the century, I suggest we slow down at the midpoint to consider how close Chicago came to being as unimportant as, say, Peoria. But how, I hear you ask, could Chicago have failed? Was its population not continuing to grow at an astonishing rate? Had the I&M Canal not opened at last, enabling ships to cross the continent from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico? Did Chicago not hold an unassailable position at the center of the continent’s trade routes?
It might surprise the reader to know that the answer to that last question is “no.” If we take high population growth as a measure of whether a town is thriving (and my favorite booster, Mr. John S. Wright, always argued that we should), then it was no mean achievement for Chicago to have taken just half a century to develop from a handful of log cabins into a community of nearly thirty thousand souls. It wasn’t, though, much of a place to look at, with its acres of cheap frame houses and muddy streets. Indeed, Chicago paled in comparison with St. Louis, its much better-established rival in the West, which eighty thousand people called home. And there were already six cities on the North American continent with populations of more than one hundred thousand: New York had in excess of half a million.
It is understandable, when you belong to a place, to imagine everyone else must consider it to be as important as you do. But the truth is that by mid-century, Chicago was just another rough little frontier town with its destiny as a great American city not even remotely in prospect, despite the exaggerated claims of its boosters. One thing, and only one thing, would change its fate forever.
Permit me one brief aside, to put this event in context. My fellow historians like to claim that 1848 was an annus mirabilis for the city. Now, I accept that we all—myself included—have a predilection for this kind of game. With the benefit of hindsight, we fiddle about with our material and look for patterns. I don’t deny that in 1848, in addition to the opening of the I&M Canal, there were other important “firsts”: the telegraph line reached Chicago, the Chicago Board of Trade was established, the first cattle yard was built—a modest little place called the Bull’s Head—and a rudimentary steam-powered grain elevator went into operation. It was also the year in which Chicago’s first railroad opened, all eight miles of it. But if I were using hindsight to proposition an annus mirabilis, it would not be 1848. My choice would be the half-century mark—1850. And this is the reason why.
* * *
We are going to position ourselves, like proverbial flies on a wall, inside the palatial North Side mansion of Mr. William Ogden one bright afternoon in early April 1850.1 Mr. Ogden, who had served as the first mayor of Chicago, was the richest and most influential businessman of his day. Now in his mid-forties, he was a fit, handsome fellow, dark-haired, with two beetling eyebrows, a nose as sharp as a blade and a formidably solid jaw. He exuded confidence, intelligence and cunning. His agile mind, eloquent tongue and sophisticated manners were said to command everyone’s respect.
Shortly after two o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Ogden’s secretary, Quigg, knocked on his master’s second-floor study door to announce the arrival of a visitor. Mr. Ogden rose to his feet and tapped the embossed leather surface of his desk three times with the knuckles of his right hand. He had once explained to Quigg that he did this for luck. His father used to tap the kitchen table of their little Walton town house, once before opening a transaction and once after it closed. “But my father, Quigg, was a poor businessman. So do you know what I do? I tap three times instead of once, and it has never let me down.”
Mr. Ogden was already in the hallway by the time the front door was being opened.
“Welcome, John,” he said to his visitor. “Come in, come in.”
The doorway was filled to its entirety by “Long John” Wentworth, a man so tall he would always incline his head on entering a room, just in case. Though he was no stranger to the house, there were still moments when Quigg found himself taken aback by the man’s stature. Indoors, he looked larger than ever, the archetypal giant of a fairy tale, with his broad, rangy shoulders, his ruffled mane of hair, the sumptuous beard and sideburns, the florid hands that enveloped yours, the slouch hat wide as a wing chair and the vast black cloak that fell from his back like a theater curtain.
On entering the vestibule, Long John paused to admire Mr. Ogden’s new painting, hung in pride of place on the right-hand wall. “Now I reckon this one must have been painted a few feet from where I’m standing,” he said. “I recognize the humble lodgings, William, with those Corinthian columns and porticoes.”
Mr. Ogden seemed surprised Long John had noticed, doubtless because that gentleman was better known for his boorish side than for his appreciation of fine art. Mr. Ogden explained the scene. Set in England in the eighteenth century, Lady Strafford’s Vision showed the lady on horseback in front of her mansion.2 “Look at the quality of the color and brushstrokes, the extraordinary crimson shade of her gown,” he said. “And the flower beds are gloriously bright and detailed, all the way down to the ornamental lake.”
“And that’s a shrine she’s on her way to?”
“I’m not sure. I wonder whether it might be a hermitage.3 I believe it was popular, in those days, for a big house to have a resident hermit.”
“Looks like that curious thing the Irish working on the Canal built a couple of years ago. Then some drunken fool blew it up and killed himself, and they tried to turn him into a saint or a martyr or something. Dirty bogtrotters, up to their usual barbarity.”
Mr. Ogden was quick to change the subject. Quigg had noticed that his master’s relationship with this particular acquaintance was regularly characterized by reticence, especially when Long John brought up the Irish and the punishment he would like to mete out to them. There were probably things Mr. Ogden judged it better not to ask of Long John, so that he did not need to know.
“Walk around the painting,” he said. “Observe Lady Strafford from different angles. See how the eyes never leave you.”
Long John did a turn. “Darn it, you’re right. You should be careful, William. Ain’t good for a man’s constitution, to be watched like that by his wife.”
As they climbed the stairs to the main reception room, he explained how the painting had come into his possession. “It was Quigg here who was responsible. Back in the summer, he brought to my attentio
n a lengthy letter in our friend Mr. Wright’s Prairie Farmer journal.”
“No doubt it was authored by him?”
“No, on this occasion it was a lengthy letter written by someone else. After much preamble, it transpired that it was advertising a sale by auction of paintings in St. Charles, Missouri. There then followed descriptions of each piece. At the very end, the author mentioned that some of the works might once have had a connection with Chicago. I was due to be in the vicinity that day, so I decided to take a look. It was a very interesting collection.”
As they entered the salon, Mr. Ogden told Quigg to prepare two whiskey juleps, indicating that he should put more whiskey in Long John’s glass than his own.
“And is there a Chicago connection?” asked Long John.
“If so, it’s a tenuous one. The auctioneer said he’d bought them in one lot from a lady who had inherited them from her grandfather, and the grandfather used to live in Chicago. But he had no idea who this grandfather was.”
They clinked glasses before sitting across from each other on the cushioned banquette that ran around the oval window overlooking the garden. Mr. Ogden was fond of pointing out the features of his garden to visitors. It was a well-known refrain of his that horticulture was a mark of refinement and Chicago needed a lot more of it. It was also his way to let visitors settle in and feel at home before he made his first move.
“The crocuses are out already. That bodes well for the summer.”
Long John grunted and brought out a pipe, which he began to fill with tobacco.
Mr. Ogden persevered: “You see those little blue and white flowers? Those are grape hyacinths. The first year I’ve tried them.” He told Long John it was important to plan gardens so that different parts were in bloom in different months, and he urged him to build a keeping house too. “I can help you with seeds. Grow your own exotics. Grapes, apricots, oranges, figs.”
Long John, his vision doubtless impaired by his energetic production of tobacco smoke, said that if he ever planted a garden he would make sure to ask for advice. He took a long draft of whiskey julep.
Mr. Ogden delayed no longer. “I assume you saw John Wright’s latest piece in the Boston Courier, advising Easterners to put their money in western railroads?”
Long John swallowed hard before popping his eyes and mimicking John Wright’s breathless way of speaking: “Men of the East. Railroads are the path to Glory. Follow me to the Promised Land and make your fortune!” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Yes,” he said. “I saw it.”
“I grant Mr. Wright can seem overexcited at times.”
“The man’s a raving lunatic, William. Admit it.”
Mr. Ogden admitted nothing. “You concede, do you not, that thanks to the influence of his Boston Courier column there will soon be three times as many railroads running to New York and Boston than go to Philly and Baltimore?”
“Doesn’t change my view that the man’s touched. And he’s a liability to anyone with whom he comes into contact. You never know what crazy scheme he’ll come up with next. And as a businessman? Those Bronson lots!”4 Long John guffawed, and the banquette shook. “You know he already went under once, back in ’37, and in my view it’s only a matter of time before he does so again.”
Mr. Ogden’s demeanor, while his friend savaged their mutual acquaintance, did not betray his thoughts. He listened politely. He indicated that Quigg should refill Long John’s empty glass. Then, rubbing his hands together (an indication that he was keen to move things along), Mr. Ogden asked Long John what he thought the prospects were for Mr. Douglas’s amendments.
* * *
Let us pause for a moment, because it is important to understand what Mr. Ogden meant, when he referred to “Mr. Douglas’s amendments.” Mr. Stephen Douglas represented Illinois in the U.S. Senate. At the time of this meeting in Mr. Ogden’s Chicago mansion, the contents of a Central Railroad Bill were being debated in far-off Washington. Included in this bill was the proposal that the Illinois Central Railroad should build its trunk line across the state from Galena to Cairo. If my readers have a map to hand, they will see what this meant. The line was to bypass Chicago and favor the city’s fiercest rival—St. Louis. Enter, at this moment in the story, the amendments. Mr. Douglas had proposed two changes. The first was that the national government should, for the first time in American history, cede public lands to the state to help fund the construction of the railroad, as it had been persuaded to do for the I&M Canal. The second was that a “branch” line be built from Chicago to Centralia. Mr. Douglas, Mr. Ogden and Mr. Wentworth were certain that, as long as this “branch” line was built, the business they could bring to it would guarantee its future. The “branch” would soon become the “trunk.” That was why they had already purchased the land through which the “branch” line would run.
* * *
Long John, on being asked by Mr. Ogden about Mr. Douglas’s amendments, shifted in his seat. He admitted that he was troubled. Was it true, as he had heard, that some powerful voices in Washington were being raised against them?
Mr. Ogden said that it was indeed true.
“In your opinion, the amendments won’t be passed?”
“It seems unlikely.” He swirled the almost-untouched whiskey in his glass. “I fear those gentlemen in St. Louis must be rubbing their hands in glee.”
For a moment, Mr. Ogden said nothing more. He let that message strike home. Long John’s dislike for anything to do with St. Louis was legendary. Together, in silence, they contemplated an exceedingly gloomy future.
Over by the drinks cabinet the silent Quigg was intrigued. He knew his master must be leading this conversation in a particular direction, but he had no idea where.
“I did have one thought,” said Mr. Ogden quietly.
Long John raised his head. In his rueful visage were signs that hope had been rekindled. He inhaled a mighty lungful of smoke. “I am all ears, William.”
“Shall we step back from our current difficulty, and consider how Chicago has addressed these kinds of challenges before? Take the Canal. Of course, many of us were involved in backing the Canal, but if we had to name one person who did far and away the most, would that not also be the same person who secured from Washington a land grant for the I&M Canal very similar to the one in the proposed amendments?”
Long John’s face, in which hope had briefly flickered, returned not to its former crestfallen state but to one of indignation. He tried to interrupt, but Mr. Ogden begged that he hear him out. In his corner Quigg, once he had gotten over his surprise, began to worry that Mr. Ogden might have overreached himself.
Long John would be silenced no longer. “I’m sorry, William. You know I have the greatest respect for you. But I thought I had made it clear that I will never again have any dealings with that … that … with Mr. Wright.” He swallowed back his drink in one.
“I understand. And, believe me, I share your concerns. But would you agree with me that if we could find a way of keeping him at a distance—and I think dispatching him to Washington would achieve that for us—he would be ideally qualified for the task? Nobody—not you nor me, not even Stephen Douglas himself—has better contacts in Washington than John Wright. Can you imagine how it would discourage our brethren in St. Louis if they heard he was at the Capitol, lobbying on our behalf?”
Throughout this encounter, Mr. Ogden had remained courteous and reasonable. Long John was sulking. He stared out the window at the garden he did not want to look at earlier, he repeatedly cleared his throat, he sprayed tobacco on the floor as he refilled his pipe.
“Even if we did,” said Long John, “and I’m not suggesting that we should, he would want his pound of flesh.” He looked with baleful eyes at his friend Mr. Ogden. “If you think, for one moment, that I’m going to let Mr. Wright have a single square foot of my land…”
“And what would you say,” asked Mr. Ogden, “if we could engage John Wright without paying him a penny?”
; Long John bestowed on Mr. Ogden a look of bewilderment, as he took delivery of a fresh glass of whiskey julep from Quigg. But before he could hear the details of Mr. Ogden’s extraordinary proposal, a carriage and horses came clippety-clop into the front yard. Moments later the bell downstairs went ring-a-ling-ling.
* * *
John Wright strode into the room like the embodiment of a strong west wind. He was a tall gentleman with striking blue eyes and curly hair that hair tonic, it seemed, could not tame. Though smartly dressed, there was an appealing air of homely dishevelment about him. His shoes were muddy, his pantaloons were creased and it looked as though he had spilled coffee on his shirt. These signs of wear and tear gave the impression of a man who had already done two dozen different things since rising from his bed that morning.
“What a magnificent house,” he said. “And this room is the icing on the cake. This oval window reminds me…” He recounted an anecdote about a window in the White House, at the same time as he greeted Long John with great cordiality. Long John did not budge from his banquette. “Are those grape hyacinths, the little blue and white ones?” asked Mr. Wright, looking out. Mr. Ogden confirmed that they were. Long John scowled. “We used to have them in the garden in Williamstown when I was a boy. But that’s the first time I’ve seen any in the West.”
He would prefer coffee, he said, to whiskey, which was another thing that probably did nothing to endear him to Long John.
There was no doubting Mr. Ogden’s disapproval of the way in which Long John failed to return to Mr. Wright the same courtesy that was extended to him. For his part, he made Mr. Wright welcome, saying how grateful they both were that he had made the time to join them.
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