Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  The sooner it was over, the better. Crowds were gathered on both banks, with the ladies accommodated on benches to one side beneath a covered stand. Most of them were waving fans and held handkerchiefs before their faces. People were complaining. Why can’t they just break down the dam and see if it works? Then we can all go home. Why wait for the mayor? Where is he, anyway? On his high horse, you can be sure of that. Why is he always late? The stench alone could make you ill, never mind the heat. And the mosquitoes. Ouch, that’s another one. (Slap). D___ you! It was a mistake to have come here in the first place. Whose idea was it? I think I’m going to faint. It’d d____d well better work. Or we know who’s to blame, don’t we? Mr. Sewage. Look, that’s him over there.

  Ellis ignored the chatter.

  They had said little on the way back from Mud Lake. Ellis felt ashamed of how he had seized hold of Dr. Rauch like that, and for the absurd accusations he had made. He did not know what had come over him.

  “I’m glad to see you angry,” Dr. Rauch had said.

  “I should have been more suspicious,” he said, “when they pushed for an adjustment in the route of the Canal. They don’t need it, Dr. Rauch. That’s what I don’t understand. They have more wealth between the two of them than anyone could spend in a dozen lifetimes, never mind one. Why do it?”

  Dr. Rauch shrugged, as if it were no mystery to him. “Because they can.”

  They walked on in silence. “I feared something was going to go wrong,” he said. “I just didn’t know how.” He swatted a fly. “You know what my maid says? A genius is the man who can see surprises before they arrive.”

  Dr. Rauch chuckled. “That explains why there are so few of them in the world.”

  “Until that channel opens, I think the Canal will work. When it backs up, what if I simply tell the truth, that this is because of the new channel that’s been dug? The channel should therefore be blocked.”

  Dr. Rauch pursed his lips. “They own the newspapers. They will say they had permission for the channel, though they won’t think to add that the permission came from the Committee they control. Mr. Sewage, they will say, miscalculated.”

  Ellis knew he was right. And that meant three years’ work and $3 million had been spent on a project that would fail. There would be no clean water for Chicago. “I don’t even know,” he said, “how many lives were lost in the building of this Canal. And for what?” He clenched his fist. “For what?”

  “You did what you thought was right.”

  “But doing what you think is right is not always enough.”

  For a while, they contemplated the turgid mess below in silence, holding their handkerchiefs tight over their mouths.

  At last, a black landau could be seen approaching along the Bridgeport road, pulled by two white horses. It drew to a halt near the bridge, the gold-embossed door opened and out stepped Mayor Mason, followed by Mr. Ogden and Long John Wentworth. They were handed little Stars and Stripes by schoolchildren as they stepped toward the bridge. The brass band struck up again. Nobody seemed to care anymore that they had been kept waiting. There was applause. Long John moved like a great sea creature through waters that parted before him, never halting his pace, somehow managing to grip shoulders and slap backs and bellow greetings as he advanced. The big black slouch hat aslant on his head stood a foot higher than anyone else’s. A cigar was wedged in his mouth. He held out both hands to greet Ellis and enveloped him in a hug, growling in his ear that he planned to recommend a bonus of $10,000 be paid by the city in recognition of his achievement and he already had Mr. Ogden’s approval. Oh, and the mayor’s approval too. Before Ellis could respond, Long John had moved on and Mr. Ogden was greeting him. “The city is in your debt, Mr. Chesbrough,” he said, tapping the rail three times with the knuckles of one hand. “I do that for luck,” he explained.

  Ellis barely listened to the speeches. He was conscious of his name being mentioned from time to time, and every so often the speakers asked that he be given a round of applause. The loudest demand came from Long John, who called him “St. Sewage,” which everyone thought was a fine jest.

  Eventually, the mayor gave the order that the temporary dam dividing the Canal and the river be broken down. Even now, as the anticipation around him reached fever pitch, Ellis could summon up no enthusiasm for what was about to happen. He did not watch the fuses being lit, and barely flinched when the dynamite exploded and the timber wall supporting a thin crust of earth gave way, allowing the Canal and the Chicago River to begin their tussle for supremacy.

  People began to drop leaves and twigs and bits of paper off the bridge into the water. Ellis could have explained that a large mass of water is not unlike a big steamer. It takes time to turn. It would be a few more minutes before the Canal could force the river back onto itself.

  He asked the mayor for the speaking trumpet.

  He was no public speaker. His voice did not carry, he felt self-conscious, and he lacked the rhetorical skills of the men who had gone before. Normally, he would have felt nervous. But today he did not care.

  “Very soon,” he began, “you will see the river change direction.” There were cheers from the crowds on the banks and a chorus of “here here”s from the bridge. “But in a few months’ time,” he continued, “the river will revert to its old course and the city’s sewage will once more pollute the Lake.” This statement was met by a bewildered silence. “And when that happens, everyone will assume that it was the mistake of Mr. Sewage.” Ellis realized that his voice was carrying better than he had thought it would.

  He explained how, ever since he arrived in Chicago twenty-five years before, he had tried to improve the city’s sanitation. He loved Chicago. He thought it had the potential to be the greatest city in America. (Relieved cheers.) He had tried to be pragmatic. “Sometimes this has meant making compromises with businessmen and civic officials that braver and more honorable gentlemen, such as Dr. Rauch, would not have agreed to make.”

  There were calls for the speaking trumpet to be taken away from him. He heard Long John’s voice. He was making a d____d fool of himself. Ellis knew he had to speak fast. Dr. Rauch cleared a path for him as they pushed their way across the bridge. All the time, he bellowed into that speaking trumpet at the top of his voice. He told the truth, as Mrs. Molloy would have told it, as Dr. Rauch would have told it, without tact and without obfuscation and without caring about the consequences.

  He told them what Mr. Ogden and Long John Wentworth had done. “They claim to serve the city, but the truth is that they’re only interested in their own profit. They do not, as the Irish say, put the right foot in the right boot.”

  Those were the last words he managed to utter. The next moment, the speaking trumpet was seized. Long John had him by the arm. He was swearing. He would have him fired. He would have him locked up. He would run him out of Chicago. He would ruin him.

  Mr. Chesbrough pushed him off. He felt quite indifferent to his threats, just as he felt indifferent to the cheering and applause from the bridge that drowned them out. Leaves, petals, pieces of paper, twigs were being dropped like confetti into the river. It was official. History had been made. The Chicago River had been reversed.

  * * *

  That evening, when the civic leaders repaired to the Palmer House Hotel, Ellis went home. He slept late the next morning and woke up feeling refreshed. If he had been dreaming, he could not remember what it was about. When he went down to breakfast, he found that Mrs. Molloy had already placed a copy of the Chicago Daily Tribune beside his plate. The speeches by the mayor, Mr. Ogden and Long John Wentworth were reported at length, followed by a description of the moment when the river was first observed to be moving in reverse. There was no reference to his intervention. The article ended with the news that, at an elaborate ceremony at the Palmer House Hotel that evening, where civic and business leaders gathered to celebrate the achievements of “Mr. Sewage,” it was announced that the City Council was awarding a bonus of $10,
000 to Mr. Chesbrough in recognition of his outstanding contribution to the water and sanitation infrastructure of Chicago. Thanks to his efforts and ingenuity, the city was now entering a new era of “safe, clean water.”

  He put the newspaper aside in disgust. He could no longer ignore the other point always made by his early mentor Mr. Stephen Long that had been troubling him. Mr. Long used to speak not only about the primacy of the improvements we make where lives are lost in an engineering project, but also about the duty of the engineer to set the rules by which the work is done. Ellis decided he would today begin an investigation into the identity of every man whose life had been lost in the building of the Canal. He would interview every contractor, and he would insist on interviewing their employees too. He would consider their working conditions and publish a report with recommendations for improvements. And when he was satisfied that he knew who and how many victims there were, he would distribute the $10,000 among their nearest relatives. He was under no illusion that this was an attempt, perhaps as pathetic an attempt as his employment of Mrs. Molloy, to assuage his sense of guilt. But since there was no numerical comfort on offer, since it could not be argued that the lives of the masses were going to be improved, it was the best he could think of doing. He wanted no more nightmares.

  1871

  THE BACKGROUND OF A SALESMAN

  CERTAINLY, SIR. I’D be happy to return the compliment and tell you something of my own father, though he was from a very humble background by comparison. Might I suggest we try those satin breeches with this midnight blue smoking jacket? Yes, imported, sir. Tailored by Henry Poole in Savile Row, London. My father was a fine man, as I best remember him. Honest, capable, salt of the earth. He had real craftsman’s hands. There was nothing he couldn’t make with them. One quality above all, sir? If I had to choose just one, it would be this. My father was a perfectionist. Everything had to be on the nail or it was not worth doing at all. It mattered not one jot how long a job took, he would never leave anything half-done. It’s only my opinion, sir, but I do think the beige overcoat and midnight blue go together quite well. And another curious thing about him, if you’ll bear with me: had it not been for my father, nobody would have ever heard of Mr. Jearum Atkins. Yes, Mr. Atkins the inventor. Exactly, sir, the one they wrote about in this month’s Scientific American. I’m proud to say he’s my uncle. Well, not exactly my uncle but very close. He’s my mother’s cousin. Yes, sir, I couldn’t be more in agreement. He is indeed a genius. More patents to his name than there are departments in Field & Leiter! The Safety Valve Regulator, the Locomotive Smoke Stacks, the Hydraulic Steering Apparatus, the Mechanical Calipers. And, best of all, the Self-Raking Harvester. You have five of them on your estate, sir? Well, I’m blessed! No, no, I promise it’s absolutely true, sir. Mr. Atkins has often said in my hearing: “If my friend Albert Sage had not made those models of the Automaton, we would never have found someone to manufacture it.” That’s right, sir. The Atkins Automaton, as it said in the article, was the name for the Self-Raking Harvester he invented before Mr. McCormick took over the patent. No, no, that’s my pleasure. I’ll put the jacket and breeches to one side. You should feel free to browse as long as you like. No need to buy a thing. Actually, he was in the hardware business himself. Just a small concern. The Sage Family Hardware Store. You remember it, sir? Yes, that’s right. It was on Madison, near the corner with State. How extraordinary. No, I’m afraid the store is no longer there. But it prospered for a long time, even in the bad years and the Depression, when everyone else was closing their doors and declaring bankruptcy. The way he managed that small enterprise was one of the most important lessons I ever learned from him, even though I didn’t understand until I was older and went into sales myself. My father had loyal customers and plenty of them. They could always rely on Mr. Sage to give them the right product at the right price. It was well known that nobody need have any fear of being honeyfuggled in the Sage Family Hardware Store. Well, thank you, sir. Most kind. Yes, I suppose you’re right. He was something of a gentleman, in his own small way. Anyway, that’s the story of my father, and I don’t mind admitting that he probably influenced me in ways I have yet to discover. Understanding one’s parents is a way to understand oneself. Isn’t that what they say? Now, sir, would you care to try this rather fine combination of a pink cravat and russet brown waistcoat? They are a rather daring combination, I agree. It’s only my opinion, and the choice is entirely yours, sir, but I do think they might suit you like a dream.

  * * *

  Yes, sadly, that is true, sir. I’m afraid the store had to close when my father passed on. No, no, I don’t mind talking about it. It’s a long time ago now. We lived in Evanston. You’ve never been? Oh, it’s a pretty place. You’d probably find it rather backward, sir, but that’s the price we pay these days, isn’t it, for some peace and quiet. It happened without warning. I went to school that day as usual, and probably spent most of it staring out the window. I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a student and never got on well with books. I think a page full of words from top to bottom rather intimidated me. The only thing I really liked to do was draw. Funny, when I think back on it. What false signals our beginnings can send to our futures, though I hasten to add I’m sure this wasn’t the same in your case, sir. I don’t think anyone, certainly not I, could have imagined I would end up here, working in the finest dry-goods store on State Street. For one thing, I never wanted to live in the city. And I was too quiet as a boy, I wasn’t good with words, I was one of the shy ones. That looks capital, sir. In my humble opinion, a very pleasing tension is created by those contrasting colors. Well, when I got home that day I found a strange buggy outside the front door. We lived in a pleasant house on its own lot. Nothing grand, but built in the colonial style, with a steep roof and tall gabled windows. Normally, there was always someone about, but on that particular day, the house was quiet as a mouse. As I stepped inside, a frightful sound emanated … if that’s a nice way of putting it … from the direction of my parents’ bedroom. Off I rushed to find out what was happening, only to be stopped at the door by my mother. She wouldn’t let me go inside. What is it? I cried. I knew, of course, it must be my father making the terrible noise. I told her I had come to help and it was unfair not to let me see him. I’m afraid I threw a rather regrettable tantrum, sir. Things that should not be repeated, not even in confidence. Perhaps, if you still have reservations about that rather lustrous pink, we should try a more sober combination? How about this pearl gray? That would be more appropriate for the occasion? Excellent. The point is that I think I was always more of a father’s boy. You were too, sir? It’s an honor to be in such good company. Well, my mother was in shock too, of course, poor woman, though I was too young to understand. We’d both said good-bye to him in the morning, the same as always. There was no reason to suspect today would be different from any other day. I was still fighting to get inside the bedroom when the door suddenly opened. An old man came out who said he was a doctor. He ruffled my hair and spoke to my mother in a church voice. I can still remember what he asked for. Boiled water, damp cloths, carbolic soap, vinegar. He told me my father needed peace and quiet. Then he could get better. How do you know he’ll get better? I asked. The doctor did not have a reply for that. So I took my chance and ducked beneath his arm. And that was how I saw my father for the last time. Yes, I think that’s a perfect match, sir. Very becoming. Splendid. And do you know what question that final sighting of my father always raises in my mind? Why on earth did it take the city so long to clean up its sewage system? That’s what I ask myself. How many people had to die before they built the Waterworks and the new Canal? Excuse me, sir. I should never have got started. You’re very understanding. Thank you. Let me say this, though. The strange thing about cholera, apart from the frightening speed at which it arrives, is what it does. I don’t just mean the … er … excretory effects. The worst thing, sir, was seeing how his skin had turned blue. And those craftsman’s hands had
become covered in wrinkles, crumpled up like paper. And his eyes had retreated deep into their sockets. A few hours, that was all it took. Just a few hours. You’re very kind, sir. Well, might I suggest one of these new cotton handkerchiefs as the perfect accompaniment? Yes, they are indeed from Paris, correct sir. Paris, yes, Paris, France. Strange, the memories that won’t go away. I remember how his eyes flickered when they saw me. And there was a quiver in his throat that gave me hope he was about to speak. But he never did, at least not before I was dragged away, never to see him again. The coffin was carried from the house that same afternoon. There was no grave, just a lime pit somewhere outside the city. I’d read about that happening in Europe. But that was back in the Middle Ages, not the nineteenth century in America. Oh forgive me, sir. I’ve gone too far. Yes, I think I might just take a moment, if you don’t mind. I shall be back in a minute. Perhaps you would like to peruse the display cabinet over there? We have an exquisite new range of pocket watches, just arrived from Switzerland.

  * * *

  Not at all, sir, I think I know exactly what you’re asking. In other words, how did a country bumpkin like me happen on such an enviable occupation as this at Field & Leiter? The truth is that I had connections, sir. My mother knew someone, and that someone knew Mr. Field himself. A gentleman called Mr. Wright, sir. Mr. John S. Wright. You haven’t heard of him? Well, I understand he was quite well known in his day. In fact, it’s a funny thing, but he was the first manufacturer of the Self-Raking Harvester we were talking about, before Mr. McCormick took over. He’s now, shall we say, past his prime. No, I hadn’t seen him for a long time, not since I was a youngster. My mother took me to see him in his office at the Prairie Farmer newspaper. Well, it’s not really an office. He hasn’t worked there for a long time, but he still keeps a room in the building where he goes to write. No, it’s a book he’s working on. I believe his subject is Chicago. He calls it Past, Present and Future. Now if I could suggest taking a closer look at this one here, sir. The case is pure gold, twelve carat, and it features a remarkable keyless winding mechanism. The creation of a jeweler called Patek Philippe. I am told he was originally commissioned to design it for a Hungarian countess. Anyway, Mr. Wright asked me what I wanted to do with my life and I said I had no idea. Of course, I did have some ideas but I didn’t dare tell him. Really, sir? Well, do you remember I told you earlier I liked to draw? My dream was to become a painter. Anyway, I’m pleased to say Mr. Wright made me see sense. He told me I should go into sales. He said that was the way to get ahead in life, that once a man knows how to sell, he can do anything. Chicago has the best salesmen in America, Stephen, he said, and the best of the best is Mr. Marshall Field. You agree, sir? Ha ha. That’s very kind. Now, if I could assist you with that chain. There. I think it’s a perfect fit. Very à la mode. Shall we proceed at once to the looking glass? So, as I was saying, Mr. Wright wrote a personal letter to Mr. Field and here I am. No, I’ve never spoken to Mr. Field myself. But he often comes around the store, checking on merchandise. You approve? Excellent. Will that be all today, sir? No, no, of course there’s no need to pay at once. Let me arrange for a slip to be made out for you. Yes, indeed, I do wear a watch as well, but mine is rather old-fashioned. And it’s silver, not gold. That’s right, yes. How did you guess? It is indeed a family heirloom.