Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  Long John, at this last comment, appeared to choke on his pipe smoke. He was presumably still roiled by the fact that Mr. Ogden had forgotten to make mention of Mr. Wright’s visit beforehand.

  The conversation that followed, though centered on Chicago’s prospects, was steered away from the matter at hand by Mr. Ogden. It was a discourse, reports Quigg, marked by flattery and cunning on the part of Mr. Ogden, surliness on the part of Long John, and a refreshing candor and good humor on the part of John Wright. His ease and wit and cheerfulness had such an uplifting effect that there were moments when even Long John’s ingrained hostility toward him appeared to founder.

  But Mr. Wright, it emerged, was also susceptible to Mr. Ogden’s flattery. In Quigg’s dispassionate view, he was overly susceptible. He seemed dazzled by the splendor of Mr. Ogden’s mansion, and when he was invited to go upstairs to the observatory, he accepted with boyish enthusiasm. Perhaps this was where his charm lay, in the fact that he did not try to dissemble.

  Long John declined the invitation to join them in the observatory. After pouring him another whiskey julep, Quigg was required to take more freshly brewed coffee to Mr. Wright. A circular staircase led to the timber platform at the top, an area measuring about twenty-five square feet, on which there stood a table and two chairs. Both gentlemen, though, were on their feet near the railings when Quigg arrived. It was an unusually clear, still day. From here, one had an excellent view of the Lake, the port and the town. They were watching the arrival of a steamer whose smoke trail hugged the Lake’s flat, silvery surface. Mr. Wright held Mr. Ogden’s telescope to his eye.

  “Judging from the numbers on deck,” said Mr. Wright, “I’d say that must be another hundred new arrivals.”

  “You can see why I like to come up here, Mr. Wright. The best measure of Chicago’s growth has always been the number of ships coming into port”—Mr. Ogden paused—“though I hope there might be a still better measure in the very near future.”

  Mr. Wright lowered the telescope. “You are thinking of the Canal?”

  Mr. Ogden shook his head. “No, not the Canal. Though I agree that will help.”

  At this point, Quigg went back downstairs. He had forgotten to bring sugar for Mr. Wright’s coffee. By the time he returned, it was clear that Mr. Ogden had made considerable headway.

  They were still on their feet, looking toward the town’s sprawl of dirt streets, ramshackle roofs and smoking chimneys. “I agree with you that we should congratulate ourselves on how far we have come so quickly. But we must also be honest. If the railroad does not come to Chicago…” Mr. Ogden did not finish the sentence. He turned to Mr. Wright, placing a hand on his wrist. “You understand what I am saying, John?”

  Mr. Wright seemed to like that familiar form of address. He said he understood, that of course he understood. “We can and must be so much more than this.”

  Mr. Ogden smiled in a way that Quigg recognized. It meant he knew he was succeeding. “There is only one person in Chicago who can take us from here”—with his hands he described first a small circle, then a much larger circle—“to here.” He paused, clearing his throat with an admirable show of emotion. “I realize the immense personal sacrifice this will entail, John. Rest assured that I would not ask this of you were you not my only hope. That is why I am beseeching you to join the cause. Without you, believe me, we are lost.” Previously, Quigg had seen Mr. Ogden use all manner of persuasive tactics but had never witnessed such a personal appeal as this. “Will you do this for me, John? Will you take up the fight? Will you transform the town we love into something magnificent? Will you make me a city?”

  * * *

  When they came down from the observatory, Mr. Ogden and Mr. Wright were in high spirits. They joined Long John on the banquette. Mr. Ogden tapped the seat three times with the knuckles of his right hand.

  “I am deeply touched by your faith in me, gentlemen,” said Mr. Wright. “I give you my word that I shall not return from Washington until the President has signed the amendments into law.”

  Long John stared at Mr. Ogden.

  “Chicago will owe you an incalculable debt,” said Mr. Ogden, finally drinking his whiskey julep. “And although it is a noble gesture on your part, to say that the signed amendments will be the best possible compensation you could receive, Long John has suggested another small way in which we might show you our gratitude, and I am in full agreement with him.”

  Long John did not look as though he had suggested anything.

  Mr. Ogden smiled. “Shall we go downstairs?”

  * * *

  The three men stood in front of the painting of Lady Strafford’s Vision. The idea had come to Mr. Ogden when he heard that Mr. Wright had bought his wife—an Eastern belle said to be considerably above his station in life—the most expensive Arabian mare ever sold in Chicago.

  “George Healy will be coming to stay with us next week,” said Mr. Ogden.

  “You mean G. P. A. Healy?” asked Mr. Wright. “The portrait painter?”

  Mr. Ogden nodded. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course. You must be delighted. If one of the greatest painters in America can find time to come to Chicago, we can surely bring a railroad here too. Will he be painting a portrait of Chicago’s first mayor? And of course”—he turned to Long John—“of our esteemed congressman?”

  Mr. Ogden smiled at Long John who, this time, did his best to smile back.

  “We shall have to see. More importantly, we were hoping you might allow us to commission a portrait of your wife as a small gesture of our appreciation, indeed of Chicago’s appreciation too, assuming that your wife were also agreeable to the notion? I thought the portrait might be modeled on this painting of Lady Strafford? Although Mr. Healy is noted for his portraits, I hope he might also be persuaded on this occasion to include your wife’s fine Arabian mare.”

  Mr. Ogden indicated to Long John, with a look, that he would take care of Mr. Healy’s remuneration.

  * * *

  And on that happy note, Quigg records, the afternoon’s meeting came to a close. Mr. Ogden had got his way and Long John was mollified because it would cost him nothing and require no contact or association with Mr. Wright. In a day or two, John Wright would board a steamer to begin the first leg of his journey to Washington. He would spend five months there, advising, cajoling and promoting the urgent need for that “branch” line to Chicago. Finally, on September 20, 1850, he would be able to send a telegraph to Mr. Ogden in Chicago reporting that President Millard Fillmore had signed the Central Railroad Bill, including those two amendments, into law.

  I puzzle over what to make of Mr. Wright. Often depicted as an overly ambitious businessman, this affair shows him prepared to work on behalf of the city. He comes off well when compared with those two titans of industry, Messrs. Ogden and Wentworth, who decided that a pat on the back and a portrait of his wife by G. P. A. Healy would be sufficient compensation for bringing the Illinois Central Railroad to Chicago.

  Mrs. Wright was said to have been delighted with her portrait, despite some minor disagreement with the artist over her decision to wear headgear that looked more like a helmet than a riding hat, in what appeared to be an attempt to mimic a Greek goddess. We have no record of Mr. Wright’s opinion.

  1851

  TRUTH FACTS

  This excerpt is taken from Reminiscences of Early Chicago, published by A. C. McClurg & Co. in 1898.

  The diary of Hannah (Antje) Van Voorhis

  Since a few days I decide to keep a diary. The first thing to put in my diary is the true story I wrote for Miss Trumbull about the school visit to the Indian camp.

  She said the story was wrong and did not give it back to me. I was rather flabergasted because I do not think my story had very greivous mistakes.

  Even Karin stopped walking home with me after that and this was very sad. Karin is my best friend. We have done many things together like the hooping cough and toothache.

&nb
sp; I am not popular with Miss Trumbull. I asked her if everything we learned in history was true or made up presumpsushly the same as poetry. History is truth facts she said with her nose in the air and nothing else but truth facts.

  Because I am rather curius by nature I asked Miss Trumbull who keeps all the truth facts because I cannot comprihend how one person can know everything since Adam and Eve.

  My father and my mother (step) often argue horsely about what happened or did not happen. Maybe one of them is right and the other is making up the past presumpsushly. But if they are both mistaken where is the truth fact now? This is the big ridle my story will solve.

  I should think up some more to say for my diary so that when I am grown up it will be nice to read again if I am in a remembering mood.

  I am eleven years old and this is the first year of the second half of the nineteenth century. My name is Hannah Birgit Van Voorhis and it is not a bad name but my father calls me Antje which is Dutch for little Hannah and I like that more.

  My mother is not my real mother but a step. My real mother was also called Hannah Birgit Van Voorhis but she passed away in New York when I was two years old before I remember anything.

  I am still dispressed about that. I think everyone should be allowed to remember her real mother. In the portrait she looks very beautiful. Her name is the only relick I have inherited because I am not particulerly beautiful. My ears stick out and I have freckles on my nose.

  My father is called Isaac Van Voorhis and he is a doctor the same as his father was a doctor the one that died in the Revolushunry War. We risided in New York until I was eight years old and then we moved to Chicago. I never saw my grandmother (fathers mother). My father says she is too exentrick.

  I think exentrick people are interesting and they are trajic as well even if not always. I have met a lot of exentricks since we came to Chicago like Mrs. Daly who only has one lung and lives on sugar and cabbage and sings even during the sermon which keeps me awake. Karin sits in the same row and we conduct Mrs. Daly with our fingers and when she sees us she gives a dainty smile.

  Then there is Mr. Church who never goes to it and he swears in a snappy tone at his oxen and wears a black patch over one eye and a yellow straw hat on his head like a basin tipped on its side. Karin and me always run past his house.

  But after Miss Trumbull did not care greatly for my true story I went home on my own and this time when Mr. Church called me for a bevrage I went for a stop. I was so heart broken it did not matter if I died now though it was dispressing not to have time to bid a fond farewell to my father and my brothers (own) and sister (own).

  But Mr. Church did not slay me. He gave me a sweet lemony drink and when I inquired him about the black patch over his eye he laughed which he never did before. His eye had a very serius tussel with a meat hook at the factory he said. I said I was sorry about the tussel but he said I was not to greive too much because the other eye worked.

  Suddenly I had one of my ideas that seems less clever after I say it. Maybe he could get another eye because our Natural Science teacher Mr. Raven brung into class the eye of an ox one day and he cut it in pieces and showed us it was the same with our eyes. Mr. Church laughed again when I said that and told me to come back again for a sweet lemony drink because he liked me. But I do not think I care to.

  I have introduced Miss Daly and Mr. Church as the prologue in my diary because the ancient Indian Majic Man is the most superior exentrick I ever saw. I cannot think of anything more to write about myself so I will now record for posterity the true story Miss Trumbull said was wrong.

  “True Story About an Ancient Majic Man in an Indian Camp”

  by Hannah (Antje) Van Voorhis

  Wednesday, April 16, 1851

  I had never espide real Indians before so I was rather exhilerated to be going to the camp. Our convayance was a prairie skooner and in our party was 17 young ladies (school girls) and 3 teachers escorted by two (2) sentries with guns.

  Miss Trumbull said we would spectate a special Indian Dance for Spring. I asked if the Spring Dance was like the Dance of Departure she told us in our history lesson when the Indians left Chicago many years ago.

  The Dance of Departure was dispressive she said but the Spring Dance is happy because of new crops. Is it always sad to leave I asked. She said it was. I said I think it must depend on what you are leaving and where you are going. Suddenly Miss Trumbull looked purplexed.

  Our skooner sped speedily past the Lake which was shining green with purple ripples. I asked Miss Trumbull why the color always changed but she got on her high horse and told me to resist from any more questions. She is not very geniul to me. I whispered to Karin that I thought the color changes because there is a majic man living under the lake.

  Karin and me were still best friends so we made up stories presumpsushly about the majic man all the way to the Indian camp. When we saw smoke messages in the sky we cleverly decifered what they said. And our majic man made birds wear hats and run on four legs and grasshoppers sing and flies stop buzzing and mosquitoes stop biting.

  Suddenly the great moment had arrived and we were jumping actively out of the convayance in front of the Camp. The mist was oozing from the ground but the heaven above was blue. We held hands two by two as we walked toward the Camp. I never did see such strange homes in all my born days.

  They are portly rectangles in shape with walls made from poles covered in bark. The roofs are very high and airy. Inside the house there are pots and baskets and mats on the floor. Maybe the mats were majic. Maybe tomorrow the Indians would fly away forever. And that made me sad to think about. Maybe I will also fly away forever one day but I hope not.

  The Indian ladies are called squaws and some had babes tied to their backs or little ones at their feet and they were sweeping daintily or making baskets. The men were ancient with red eyes and blankits around their shoulders playing with beads and smoking.

  Everyone in Indian camps moves like the tortus while everyone in Chicago runs like the hair. In the story the tortus beat the hair but I do not remember why. Only the other Indians (not ancient) did not move like tortuses. They were racing gallantly on their horses.

  While we were strolling geniully two lady squaws hailed each other in high voices and Miss Trumbull said this was rude. I inquired her why it was rude because ladies and gentlemen in Chicago shout the same way too. Miss Trumbull did not care for my question. She did not reply and gave me a speaking look instead.

  The squaws were admiring us politerly and making us welcome and come here into my house please miss. But Miss Trumbull told us to stay close and hold hands until we reached the prayed ground for the Spring Dance.

  I got lost from Karin and the other 15 young ladies (school girls) when we had to duck our heads and pass between some dripping blankits hung on trees. I do not know why Miss Trumbull took us that way but there were too many blankits and it was like amaze.

  I stopped holding Karin’s hand and maybe I doordled and that was when a vishus dog came barking at me so I dashed away in terror with the wild beast biting at my heels.

  When I was almost out of breth the dog collapsed on its paws near a portly house where an old lady squaw was cooking in a big black pot. Her face was brown and creasy and she waved with her hand saying to please come to eat with me miss.

  I said yes thank you because since breakfast was a long time and I felt hungry. The old lady squaw stirred inside the pot with a long wooden spoon. The broth purspired actively. I sat next to her on her mat and another dog (friendly) came to sniff and put his head on my knee.

  Take your seats please ladies and gentlemen. Lend me your ears. Because suddenly the great moment of my story has arrived.

  The old lady called like a bird and momentily from the darkness of the house an old man strolled out even slower than a tortus. He was top sized and straight and his chest was shiny. I knew immediatly he was a majic man even though I had never espide one before.

  His skin wa
s very dark and silky. He held one hand at his heart and in the other was a fur bag with his spells inside. He oozed goose grease and fish oil. I counted the lines of red paint across the tops of his cheeks (five) and purple (three).

  His gray hair was playted down to his shoulders and deckerated with a silver fether. He was as ancient as my grandfather if he did not die in the Revolushunry war and the most beautiful ancient majic man I ever saw and better than a picture in a book.

  And he had the trajicest face I ever saw. The cheeks were like old leather and bended in where tears had run like a waterfall to make them smooth. His mistick eyes were orange brown like leaves in the fall.

  He bestrode his hand on my head and made a spell speaking the majic words very perlitely in a deep voice. I was not scared because his hand was warm and it sounded like a good spell. Then the majic man lowered himself in a seemly manner to the ground and laid his legs out flat beneath him like a pancake. There was no doubt he was the correct article.

  Suddenly he began to speak to me in quear English. I was very purplexed at first because I did not expect this. He inquired me my name and where I came from and who was my father. So I told him everything and then I asked him questions too.

  Why did they live in a camp with portly houses that can blow away? Where did he come from in the beginning? Where was he going tomorrow? Why were white people and Indians not friends? And why did Indians not have their own land like white people?

  He watched me in a gallant way but did not speak a word. He lapped up the soup in the bowl and I was perterbed he might be angry.

  The soup was bitter (sour) with hard pieces (meat) but the old lady squaw was smiling. She showed me how to soak flat bread in the soup until it became soft with only pips left.

  The ancient majic man finished eating and began to make a spell in a rarther pious way with one hand at the heart. I knew it was a spell because it was very long and musikle and never even braked for breth. I shut my eyes and when the spell was finished I opened them again and the majic man looked even more top sized and shinier than before.