Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

As we were passing by the beach, I noticed the Indians with us begin to ride wide, away from the water’s edge and near to the line of sandhills. One by one they disappeared. That was the first strangeness. But I kept mum. Cicely, she couldn’t see out of the wagon, but I knew she was watching me for news. She was also singing for the children, and playing with them, and somehow she kept the babe Juba suckling at her breast. I never saw a woman more capable than she. I pretended to her I’d seen nothing, but she must’ve seen a sign in my eyes. Not fear there yet, I reckon, but suspectfulness. Suspectfulness that something wasn’t right. I tried to smile, like I was easeful, but I don’t think she was cheated by that.

  We were nearly level with our cottonwood tree when I saw the Miamis come to a halt, and I knew you were there, Isaac, though I could not make you out. The leader removed his hat and waved it, around and around his head. We were surrounded: that was the story.

  The enemy Indians rose mysterious above the sandhills, like a long line of turtle heads. There was a single, deceptful moment of quiet. Nobody seemed to be moving at all. It was like looking into a dream through that small tear in the canvas. Perhaps if I drew back, the dream would fade and the turtle heads vanish and the moment of danger would pass and be no more.

  But it happened otherways. The silence ended as sudden as it started. I never knew what came first. A horn blew, there was a rat-a-tat-tat of musket fire, the turtle heads were grown big and become Indian braves on horseback, faces painted red and black, their heads shaven with a scalp lock hanging at the back. They were beating one hand in front of their mouths as they rode, to make their ghost noises. And they were befeathered and waving guns and tomahawks. There was a thud thud thud of drumming or maybe it was the hooves of the horses or probably it was both. They galloped faster and faster, the closer they came. Where the air before had been still and empty, it was flashing with steel and blurry with smoke and kicking up fountains of sand. I raised my hand and, instead of shouting “Hide,” I shouted “Snag.”

  Those dear little souls understood well enough what I meant and they buried themselves beneath the blankets, and how I wish they’d been allowed to stay buried like that forever, out of sight, playing the game over and over amen, playing the game over and over without end.

  But there was no God. They weren’t allowed. No, they weren’t allowed to go in peace.

  [Pause, as Mrs. Van Voorhis wipes tears from her eyes.]

  I didn’t see you again, Isaac, not till the fighting was over and the bodies lay twisted like drunks beneath our tree, and I knew you only by your blue silk coatee, the one you wore when we pledged our troth, when it was as fresh and new as our love. It was the only proof I had that it was you. For they had crushed your face, and stolen your hat and taken a slice off your scalp, and over you, my darling, over your ruined head flew flies, a thousand flies in a hissing swarm.

  [Long pause]

  One of those devil-painted brutes came to our wagon. He leapt up and hacked the first child to death before he’d even finished pulling away the blanket, with one blow across the throat. The little children were paralyzed with terror. Some of them cried out, but most were whimpering or silent, huddled together. And all the time that savage whooped and yelled. After the first child fell, he swung his bloody tomahawk at another woman with us whose name was like to Mrs. Corling or Corbin. She was using her fists to try to stop him but he slit her neck and must have struck an artery, for a fountain of blood splashed over those doomed children.

  Yes, they were all doomed, all doomed but one. Or maybe I should say two, for the secret I was carrying in my own belly.

  Cicely pleaded with the savage to spare baby Juba. But there was not a drop of mercy in his heart. And there should be no forgiveness for him neither, not even from God himself if He existed which, after this, He never could. The Indian tore Juba from Cicely’s breast and smashed the little one’s head on the timber planking. Cicely’s lips were moving when he swung the blade high to drive into her throat. Her lips were moving with a prayer, and she was looking at me, her eyes not full of terror as mine were, but with a strange and wondrous light, and I thought I knew what it was. The love she’d preserved for herself and her babe, she was now passing on to me, because she had no further use for it. Yes, that was how she looked at me, all the kindness and love she’d saved up in her life, she was handing it to me. And what wretched use of it I’ve made. Cicely should have lived instead of me. Cicely and her child should have lived instead of me and mine.

  Yes, you understood correct. I birthed a son, that I did.

  Why did he spare us, while sparing no one else? You have still not understood, Mr. Ship?

  [Long pause. Mrs. Van Voorhis, for the first time since this interview began, will not look at me. And when she does speak, she chokes on the first few words, though their meaning is unmistakable.]

  Because he knew me, Mr. Ship, the same as I knew him. That’s why. He recognized me. Stained by the blood of the children he’d slain and the broken necks of Cicely and Mrs. Corbin, Wabaunsee knew me for his kin.

  I was more angry than afraid. I did not care what happened now. I threw myself at him, clawing at him, scratching him with my nails. I told him to kill me too. I ripped the cloth at my throat to bare my neck. Cut it, I demanded. But that was when his eyes lost something of their shine. He lowered his knife, pushed me back and smacked me down with his bare hands.

  How I wish he had taken my life.

  [Long pause]

  He took me with him, didn’t he, Mr. Ship? He took me with him to the camp. No, probably it wasn’t like an Indian camp today, though I never seen one since. It was a big place, full of horses and children. There were four of us, I reckon, that they was keeping captive there. It’s a blur, the memory of it. I was in a big tent, warm enough at night and cool during the day. I was fed better than I’d eaten in Fort Dearborn. There was a lot of corn and fresh meat. The Potawatomies were still wealthy then. Still proud and strong.

  * * *

  Yes, he protected me. I was sick with the babe and he brought the old squaws to nurse me. And he allowed no man near my bed. I can’t say otherwise, that he did this, that he kept me safe. It was his guilt for the horror he’d done, I reckon, that saved me. Soon as I was strong enough for the journey, he took me to St. Charles.

  * * *

  Yes, I saw him once again. The day the Indians left Chicago. No, we didn’t speak. But I showed him he would never get no forgiveness from me.

  * * *

  There. It is said now. For the first time, it has been said.

  [Long pause. Mrs. Van Voorhis removes from her neck an antique necklace, strung with fine copper leaves, and hands it to me. She tells me she would like me to have it. She does not need it anymore, because she no longer needs protection from anyone or anything. It once belonged, she said, to her grandfather. Only later would I discover, when Mrs. Van Voorhis bequeathed Pointe de Sable’s journals to me at her death, the necklace’s remarkable provenance.]

  I tell you this, Mr. Ship. A long time ago, Miss Chappell wanted me to tell her all that happened. She said to speak about it would make me feel better. Sharing what hurts you with someone else is a remedy. That’s how she talked, and she said she did the same herself too, with a cousin of hers. I didn’t heed Miss Chappell because I knew she’d be reading from the Bible next, and I would have none of that. Probably something about mercy. She said without mercy we are lost. Utterly lost. Mercy and compassion, she’d say, that’s what we need, heh heh. But just because Wabaunsee was kind to me once, that don’t mean he earned my mercy. Nor compassion neither. Not to my mind. Not after the evil he’d done. I was saved by his guilt, that’s all. He wanted to put me on the other side of the scales. But it don’t work like that.

  No, I never told Gray Curls what he did, for the hurt it would have done him. I never told no one. But I often wish I had told Miss Chappell, just for to see the answer she would be giving then, about her mercy and compassion.

  *
* *

  I’m grateful that you made me tell you, Mr. Ship. I feel the better for it. It is like a great weight has been lifted by the talking. Perhaps if I’d done this when Miss Chappell asked, it would have made all the difference. We shall never know, shall we, Mr. Ship? That’s how life is. We never know what we’d best have done till it’s too late.

  1880

  A FEMALE REPORTER

  IN THE DESERTED lobby, you stand near enough to the window to keep an eye on the gaslit gloom of Madison Street, and silently curse Tom for being late. If you were to make a list of the ways in which you find him irritating, having no sense of time would be near the top, alongside his impracticality. Give him the simplest job, like painting a room or fixing a broken door hinge, and he will not only find a way to complicate it, he’ll make a mess of it. Oh Tom, why tonight, of all nights?

  You want to be there to applaud Mr. George the moment he appears. You’ve been looking forward to this ever since the evening was first announced. And one thing is certain. Tom would have made damned sure he wasn’t late if the speaker were one of his heroes: Henry James, for example, or William Dean Howells.

  And then, suddenly, you spot him, loping tall and ungainly along the sidewalk through the wind and rain in that odd way of his when he’s in a hurry, as though legs and arms are working simultaneously to paddle him along. He must have forgotten his umbrella, or lost it again. When he comes near, and sees you through the window, he frowns apologetically and mouths something, no doubt an excuse. His hat and tie are askew. He tries to push the door open instead of pulling it. In he comes, removing and shaking out his coat, throwing his arms around you in an embrace as he leans down to plant a kiss on your cheek. His beard is moist. He scatters you with raindrops. “Terribly sorry, Antje,” he says. “Getting the last few customers out was a nightmare.”

  Probably because he was engaged in a fascinating literary conversation and quite forgot about his engagement at McVicker’s. You want to be angry, but your irritation is already fading, as it always does. “Come on,” you say, taking his arm and leading the way. The man at the door checks the tickets and you are soon making your way into the ornate, stuffy theater hall. You glance around the auditorium and up at the grand circle. It looks sold out. And that makes you feel inordinately proud for Mr. George, that he has filled all these seats on such a cold, wet Monday night.

  You’ve hardly had time to get your notebook out before he’s announced to a round of sustained applause. The stocky gentleman who crosses the stage toward the lectern looks at ease, acknowledging the warm reception with a modest smile and a raised hand. He bows three times, first to the sides of the hall, and then to the center. You clap in what you realize, deep down, is a mood of wondrous astonishment. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet it is, that he looks identical to the man in the photographs. You have to pinch yourself. Henry George is here in the flesh, onstage in Chicago, and you—Antje Hunter—are here to see him. You share a smirk with Tom before making some notes. You have always been a compulsive note-taker, whether or not it’s for work. Dark suit—smart but ordinary; white shirt and black tie, thick wavy brown hair combed over the ears, a distinctive mustache and goatee, prominent forehead with significant balding; bright, cheerful eyes with a steady gaze; confident, engaging smile. If he could read what you’ve written, Tom would say it’s too bland and doesn’t capture anything of his inner essence. But you try to avoid speculation, and Tom’s never learned shorthand.

  It was an article he wrote in Overland Monthly about the expansion of the railroads that first alerted you to the work of Henry George. That must have been over ten years ago, shortly after “Annie Borne” was given the opportunity to write an occasional column on food or fashion at the Tribune. In that article, Mr. George argued that the railroads, for all the material benefits they promised, would profit only a privileged few while increasing the poverty of the many. He wrote about the concentration of wealth and resources in the hands of an elite, the problems created by a growing population and the need in the future—more than ever before—for “public spirit, public virtue.”

  His message was lucid and uncompromising. It felt as though he had shone a light on your own confusion about the mixed blessings of the railroads and the ways in which the rush for growth was being pursued in Chicago. And it was, you realized, exactly the kind of serious reporting to which you had always aspired. Now George has written a masterpiece, a book entitled Progress and Poverty, which can hardly be described as journalism at all. It reads more like a philosophical tract and, however much Tom may frown and call it “indigestible,” you’ve found it as gripping and imaginative as anything you have ever read.

  Mr. George really is here, in front of you. You glance across at Tom and it is disappointing to see that he is struggling to stay awake. How can he appreciate Mr. George if he doesn’t concentrate? You give him a gentle nudge and smile as he blinks, sits up straight and pushes his spectacles up his forehead. You make more notes. Speaks with naturalness and fluency. Only looks down when reading an extract from the book itself. His voice commands the hall, his sentences ebb and flow.

  When he begins to outline his proposals for the common ownership of property and the institution of a single tax on land, you feel again the primal surge of excitement you felt when you first read those words in the book—words that his political opponents have so unfairly maligned and misrepresented. You look across at Tom. With your eyes, you give him what you used to call, as a child, a “speaking look”: this one means, remember this part? He nods and stifles a yawn.

  “All of us here tonight,” says Mr. George, “are immigrants, or we are the children of immigrants, or we are the grandchildren of immigrants. Our ancestors had no rights to the land on which they settled. So who owned it, before we immigrants took over? The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is that nobody owned it.” In shorthand, you write this down verbatim. “But what of those indigenous Indian tribes,” he continues, “that lived on the land. Did they not own it before we came?” He looks around the auditorium. “No, ladies and gentlemen, the Indians never owned the land. They lived on the land, they used the land, but they never owned the land. And why did they never own the land? Because such a concept, the idea that a man could actually own land, that land could be bought and sold, that it could be traded like beads and whiskey, made no sense to them.” He pauses. “And they were right.”

  The silence inside the auditorium is profound.

  You lean across to Tom and whisper in his ear: “The Old Magic Man, remember?”

  Mr. George’s voice assumes a heightened cadence and rhythm as his argument builds. The thrill of hearing him lay down point after point with such clarity and passion fills you with joy. This, you think, is how you change the world, by confronting the real and the uncomfortable challenges faced by society. Land is a finite resource, he points out. As the population grows, and as material progress is made, the pressure on it inevitably increases. When land becomes a scarcer resource, its value goes up. And if we allow by law that such land is “owned,” the owner makes a profit for doing absolutely nothing.

  Mr. George raises both hands, as though appealing to common sense. “Land,” he declares, “was made by nature. It was not made by landlords.”

  There is a round of applause.

  “The Great Spirit gave the land to all his children,” you whisper to Tom.

  As the applause dies down, someone shouts: “Dirty socialist scum.” You look up. It seems to have come from the grand circle. And then, from the other side, as if taking a cue from the first disruption, another man yells: “Anarchist.”

  Mr. George tries to continue. He raises his voice. He is neither a socialist nor an anarchist, he insists. But that is as far as he gets. Fights have broken out up there. This disturbance, it’s clear to you, must have been organized beforehand. There are two small mobs, each about half a dozen strong. On each side, they have advanced down the aisles to the rails in the front row of the
circle, from where they chant insults and swear, shaking their fists at the stage. “Anarchist! Socialist! Scum!”

  Pandemonium ensues, with everyone rising to their feet. Some policemen are coming through now. Tom is tugging your arm. But that is when you see, when you very clearly see, a man up there wearing a dark overcoat with his hat pulled down low, draw back his arm and hurl something toward the stage. There is a sound of smashing glass and, shortly afterward, Mr. George brings a handkerchief to his nose. With regret, you hear him say above the clamor, he will have to stop there.

  People in the front few rows are coughing and holding their noses. Tom is leading you out when the stench reaches you too. It is awful, like rotten eggs.

  * * *

  The next morning you wake up late, roused by the sound of Tom in the kitchen and the smell of coffee. The newspaper is propped up by your place, open at the front page. The front page? Your hand trembles as you pick it up and you can feel Tom turning to watch. Your eyes, for a moment, cannot focus. But there they are, your words in black and white: “Henry George’s Lecture at McVicker’s Theater Disrupted by a Mob.” You begin to read, but stop and look back at the headline again. There is something not quite right. Then you realize it is not the headline that troubles you, it’s the name of the correspondent. The article has not been written by “Annie Borne.” The author, it says, is “Antje Hunter.” You gaze at the unfamiliar contours of its typescript form, remembering how you had toyed with using it, just to shock people, in that very first letter you ever wrote to the Tribune. At the last moment, you lost your nerve and merely signed it: “An Excluded Female of Voting Age.” So this, you marvel, this is how my name looks in print.