Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  I feel I am sifting through useless details. There are gaps. I cannot profess that any artifact is more important than any other. Contradictions are inevitable. The more research available, the clearer the landscape of the past becomes. But detail begets complexity. And the truth becomes obscured.

  I hope you will check out The Sisters Gray from the Vault and peruse it. I namestamped it for you to find. It looks to be from the turn of the twentieth century. It is, without a doubt, a work of fiction. A flimsy and melodramatic one at that. Nonetheless, pertinent facts may be hidden in the story.

  Though you share a last name now, these aren’t your forebears, as I’m sure you know. I only wish I could give you the Bartle family tree. The first I reconstructed, it contains its fair share of characters. This book was authored by “L. W. Gray.” This must be a pen name—someone anonymous determined to set down the family stories. It would be better if he or she had stuck to nonfiction. It is overwrought, gossipy, preoccupied with social norms, and dripping with overelaborate illustrations.

  The only interesting part is the third, beginning on the pages I've included here. The plot concerns the daughters of Joseph Gray. Beyond his initial letter to Zadock, I had not investigated him thoroughly. He now seems worthy of a closer look. I have cobbled together a brief biography from society publications. Business was his main sphere of influence, and though his ventures are well documented, little can be gleaned from numbers and ledgers. He kept no diary and wrote few letters. Here’s what I know:

  Joseph Sloper Gray arrived in Chicago in 1835 with two daughters, a wife, and her six sisters. He heard of the opening of the Illinois-Michigan Canal and, believing it an opportunity to expand his powder-mill business, he moved to the Midwest. This decision proved wise. Due to the canal, his business boomed. He quickly realized the potential of the new city.

  Gray diversified by investing in Chicago-area land. He organized the city’s first waterworks and built a pine reservoir in south Chicago. Under his able management, the business grew, riding the crest of the Chicago boom. He opened branches of Gray’s Powder Mill in St. Louis and Milwaukee.

  He also became a member of Chicago’s urban elite. A group of men like Gray, who had come from New England and made their fortunes in the west, dominated city politics and business as well as intellectual and philanthropic endeavors. Gray lent support to a wide array of civic projects, among them the Chicago Historical Society, the Chicago Academy of Sciences, and the Chicago Relief and Aid Society. The “Prairie Aristocracy,” which he was demonstrably part of, was entirely self-selected. The only bar to entry was wealth. Blood counted for little, since most well-connected families remained in the social systems that had been established back east, in New England. In Chicago, anyone who managed to push his way to the top could become a community leader, no polish necessary. This was certainly the case with Joseph Gray, who scaled the ladder with some aplomb. Given that he didn’t have a prestigious bloodline, he was certainly looking for upward mobility for his two daughters.

  His tours of Chicago for the newly arrived became infamous. Secured in his open carriage, he would regale his guests with lectures about the future of Chicago as he drove his animals wildly through the streets, kicking up dust and disorder.

  The north side of Chicago was essentially a forest when he constructed his large home there. He thought the tall elms and cottonwoods gave his estate a rural feel despite its close proximity to the center of the city. The plot of land was soon surrounded on all sides by a rapidly growing Chicago.

  The year 1837 brought setbacks. The settlers of Texas had just declared their independence from Mexico. Gray took a marked interest in this revolution. Perhaps he viewed the coming war for the southern territory as a boon for his gunpowder mill. He was distracted by Texas when the national panic of 1837 hit.

  Most of his capital was tied up in his flagging businesses. Investors across the world pulled back rapidly and banks went under. Joseph Gray was one of a group of community stewards who were forced to use their own fortunes to prop up the Illinois Bank and issue scrip, a paper money that kept business moving until the economy recuperated. This further depleted his fortune, which had seemed so solid just a few years before. The scrip worked and in the early ’40s, when the homesteaders returned to Chicago in droves, the boom resumed. Unfortunately, Gray did not see a return on his investment and his mills continued to struggle.

  It was during this time that Joseph Gray turned much of his attention to what would be his obsession for the rest of his life: the Museum of Flying. The first location was the ground floor of his large estate in Lincoln Park.

  The Museum of Flying was born of a fascination with the Ark, a natural history museum in Cleveland, Ohio. A visit sometime in the late 1830s to that small wooden building filled with animal specimens ignited an interest in Gray that never subsided. The Museum of Flying was founded in an attempt to establish scientific credibility. Gray was enamored of the adventuring naturalists who went on exploratory missions across the western United States, discovering and documenting new species. He wanted to be included in their circles. He met, and was very taken with, John James Audubon, the famed illustrator, naturalist, and publisher of Birds of America.

  Gray organized many small specimen-gathering trips around the Midwest, but was never able to leave for long. He had two daughters who were in his sole care.

  Joseph Gray married Elizabeth Anderson in 1816, before coming to Chicago. The girls were born after they arrived. Elizabeth died in childbirth along with a third daughter. Gray never remarried, though he looked after his wife’s sisters.

  Before she died, Gray’s wife imparted to their daughters a love of literature. She penned a novel about a fantastical city set far in the future, entitled The City-State. It was uncommon for women of her time to write, and even less common for them to be published. Unfortunately, her work was not. The records state that the only copy in existence is housed in the collections of Texas. But I do not think I can travel to your city-state. Running into you would be too dangerous. I won’t risk it. It’s better that you just read. You’ll see what I see in this book.

  Gray had trouble attracting as much investment as he would have liked to the odd museum, and finding funding proved difficult. He persisted past the point of reason. He could not seem to apply his business acumen to this particular project. Coupled with his mills’ dire straits, the Museum of Flying stretched the family’s finances to the limit.

  Even so, he spared no expense on the things he built, commissioning custom display cases and tables for his growing collection of specimens. Most of the records that I could find concerning Gray were debtor’s notes.

  The Sisters Gray paints a less than rosy picture of the great patriarch and his museum. However, the novel provides details that are tempting to incorporate in the historic record, and certainly form my conception of what the man was like.

  Be cognizant that its origins are hidden to us. Caution must be exercised in taking what is clearly a novel of manners for a piece of the historical record. Nonetheless, it mentions a Mr. Thomas as a suitor for Elswyth’s hand in marriage, and for this reason it is pertinent to Zeke’s bloodline. Joseph Gray was the reason for Zadock’s journey westward. If only we could separate the facts from the fiction.

  I long to talk to you about this book and bloodline in person. But if I speak to you, or even flash a hand signal, they will arrest me. They would if they knew I was writing this. The reasons I had to leave are difficult to explain. Please know it was not because I don’t love you. It was never that.

  THE SISTERS GRAY STUDY A BOOK OF BIRDS. ELSWYTH ADVISES HER SISTER AGAINST A CERTAIN SORT OF SUITOR.

  s daylight waned, the sisters Gray sat on the antique carpet of their father’s large library. Elswyth, the elder, held an enormous book open on her lap, and was patiently turning the pages for her younger sister, Louisa.

  Verily they both loved the book, nearly as much as their father, Mr. Gray, did. He kept
Audubon’s Birds of America on a large table in the middle of the library room. The table had been specially constructed by the best furniture maker in Chicago for the sole purpose of displaying the enormous volume. Its leaves unfolded like the wings of a majestic bird. Mr. Gray had purchased the new octavo edition with sixty-five additional plates of wondrously illustrated fauna. It was his stated desire to build the museum into a living version of what was depicted upon those pages. Indeed, it had been the museum’s first investment, and its most costly. Mr. Gray purchased the book from Mr. Audubon himself, whilst he was in Chicago to secure subscriptions, his daughters anxiously huddled behind him. Every new plate was a thrill.

  Before she died, their mother used to read the descriptions to them. She was a writer, and would embellish the beautiful watercolors with finely spoken words. Now older, the sisters had looked through the book many times, often without their father’s permission. That morning they had driven to City Cemetery on North Avenue to visit the site of their mother’s grave.

  ‘Will you read from Mother’s book?’ Louisa asked upon their return. She never tired of listening to someone read from the stack of pages that made up their mother’s novel.

  ‘The City-State is tiresome to read, Louisa, it has too many devices and made-up words.’ Elswyth was unsettled after the graveside visit, and besides, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to read the novel since her mother’s death. It was simply too painful to hear her voice. ‘What about Birds of America instead?’

  Louisa eagerly agreed—she was easy to please—and Elswyth began turning the large pages of the open book.

  ‘Why did you skip the hawk?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘His beak is too much like a dagger. And his eyes are stupidly far apart. He rather reminds me of ugly Mr. Buell.’

  Louisa frowned. Mr. Buell had been one of Elswyth’s suitors. Louisa was fascinated by the idea of suitors, being only fourteen and not yet introduced to society.

  ‘Tell me of courting. I can’t wait to play at it.’

  ‘It is no game. I went to a lovely party the other night. There was music and it was quite gay, but I had to remain guarded. There were many men there, but none I would accept as a suitor.’

  ‘Like who?’ Louisa clung to every detail when Elswyth told her stories of courtship, and carefully remembered all the names.

  ‘Well, there’s Mr. Marback, who goes to all the matinees, but rather than dancing, spends all his time staring at me. I don’t speak to him. Mr. Newberry is a midshipman whom I met for the first time. I thought he was twenty-two, but he told me he was twenty-eight, though he still seems like a boy to me. Mr. Clybourn is very refined and fastidious, not to mention exceedingly handsome. He gave me his photograph and the seventh button off the left side of his coat, and a fine green ribbon. And then, a stunning bouquet of white camellias. You can see how he is rather too much.’

  ‘Did you flirt with him?’

  ‘Oh no, I won’t flirt, it is a contemptible thing. Some gentlemen run after girls as soon as they are in petticoats and seem to know all the things to say to them. Others are quite indifferent until a certain girl rouses them. That’s the kind I prefer. You shouldn’t accept too many callers.’

  ‘Just the ones you want to marry. Like Mr. Thomas.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Thomas is a puzzle. He’s not a very good caller. To make a suitable husband, he should have either fame or fortune. Or good blood. There is something to him though. Perhaps the only thing to recommend Mr. Thomas is his fine mustache.’

  ‘You like him!’ Louisa protested. Elswyth smiled slightly. Her sister continued, ‘I’d prefer Mr. Buell.’ Mr. Buell had been in their father’s employ for many years and often loitered about the house.

  ‘Mr. Buell’s persistence is a bit disturbing. He is always looking for an excuse to show off his skill at fencing.’

  ‘I like fencing.’

  ‘Then from your lessons you should know that it’s not something to be practiced carelessly. He is too flash about it. Especially when he has been carousing. His cheeks become flush with drink, and he begins to imagine others insult him, dressed in all his fineries. Or perhaps he enjoys the fighting. He is certainly inclined to seek pleasure. He is not the sort to marry. But he would never dare to cross Father. And he keeps some of the other less desirables away.’ She turned the page of the oversize book and they looked upon some small snipes attended by reeds.

  ‘He doesn’t keep Mr. Thomas away.’

  ‘He is simply employed here as well, not necessarily courting. Courting is only for discovering if someone is suitable. Mr. Buell is more like this snipe here. You see, you must never marry a snipe-legged man. That is not the best sign for a marriage.’ Here she channeled her mother and embellished a bit. ‘A snipe-legged man is delicate, born of spring’s uncertain dew. He is a man who flits about, picks at his food, stares, or is nervous with smiles. These are had signs. They mean a man is mocked by insecurity, trying to flee himself, driven by distraction.’

  ‘What’s a better bird?’ Louisa asked, pulling at the corners of the large pages. ‘This one? Is he like Mr. Thomas?’

  Elswyth read the page aloud to her sister:

  The flight of this species is strong, rapid, and greatly protracted. Its movements on wing are similar to those of the oystercatcher and, unless during breeding season, are performed low over the waters. They seldom rise without emitting their usual notes, which resemble the syllables will-wilet, or will, will, willet, and are different from the softer and more prolonged whistling notes which they emit during the pairing season…

  ‘Well, not much, though Mr. Thomas does compose mournful love notes. Maybe no bird at all is better.’ Elswyth pulled the book away. ‘A bird-man is only happy left to his own devices, building a dirty nest, sharpening his beak on a frozen branch, or picking dark earthworms from the dirt. He can’t take notice of the change in season, save to stop singing and pine for warmer climes. He looks always to leave you. Even beside you, he is often gone, called by the morning sunlight dancing on the stream. At night his heart beats too fast, and he fidgets terribly, anxious for the pink light of dawn.’

  ‘Mr. Thomas is sweet. Why don’t you marry him?’

  ‘There might be another with a family to speak of. Louisa, if you have suitors, then you must be patient. Be particular about who may ask for your hand. If you marry a bird-man, the hatchlings he fathers for you will have heads shaped like eggs.’

  Louisa giggled at the thought. ‘Are there men who are like moths? Moth-men?’ Moths were Louisa’s favorite creature of all the winged denizens of the Museum of Flying.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Elswyth closed the book. ‘Let’s read something else.’ She fitted it back into the open drawer, sized to hold the volume in the custom-made table, closing it carefully away. Their father was an enemy of shoddy workmanship. He preferred only the finest, best-made things. If a book was crafted unconvincingly he would refuse to read it on grounds of aesthetics. Elswyth perused the rest of the library. Louisa watched her sister count down the rows of labels. ‘Will you teach me how to file the books?’

  ‘One day I’ll set down the instructions on paper. As well as some of my advice on courting. We don’t have the bloodline that other girls do, so we must be perfect in all other ways.’

  Elswyth had begun, indeed, to compose bits of advice to Louisa. She planned to bundle them together and give them to her sister upon her introduction. Neither of them had a mother to navigate them through the perplexing wilderness of society. Their Aunt Anne was reclusive and little help in this regard. Elswyth thought to compose a set of instructions. She had been courting a long time, after all. She had a secret hope that her insights might be astute enough to comprise a book of manners, could a publisher be found. And if one couldn’t, perhaps Mr. Thomas would do the printing for her. He might learn a thing or two about how to approach her by proximity to the advice.

  ‘Father’s grand donor gala might be your first evening out. Of course, I h
ave to help with the preparations, Father needs it more than ever this year. I hope that the winter plague lets me alone.’

  ‘What should I wear?’

  ‘An excellent question for a lady!’ Elswyth knew that Louisa wanted to see the fine things she wore to parties. ‘And I am ever the one to ask. Do not let Aunt Anne dress you for a party, ever. You shall be as a twig of wallflower, growing along the cracks, attracting no one but dust. You don’t want to be stuck living with Father as long as I have.’ They hooked arms and promenaded to Elswyth’s large closet, almost a separate room off her bedroom.

  Elswyth plucked each individual garment from within and presented them to Louisa, who stood at rapt attention.

  ‘You could wear any to your introduction. This linen dress, over silk petticoats. Or this white nainsook overdress, see the green ribbon under the puffings?’

  ‘Is there one with a mottled pattern?’

  Elswyth fetched another. ‘Braided hussar? Maybe not a jacket for your first outing. What about this gray silk with black Valenciennes? I wear it with Mother’s seed-pearl brooch as a corsage, and you could too, if you promised to be mindful of it.’

  ‘Yes, that one!’

  ‘Or my favorite, green faille silk of the most delicate springtime color, trimmed with white lace. To be worn with a tall whitechip hat, very high, with two large feathers and a little green parrot wing to match. As stunning as can be.’

  Louisa ran her hand over the silk.

  ‘What is this?’ Elswyth pulled at a loose thread on Louisa’s smock-frock. The entire hem had come undone. ‘Don’t tell me you need playclothes?’ Louisa’s face dropped. ‘You must start acting more like a lady if you ever expect to be one. No more play time. Come along, we’ll get some thread and put things