1871
A Novel of the
Great Chicago Fire
By
PETER J. SPALDING
Smashwords Edition
© 2010
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CONTENTS
PART I: THE OLD CHICAGO
Chapter One: The Biggest Boomtown in the World
Chapter Two: The Prince of Rails
Chapter Three: The Mark of a True Businessman
Chapter Four: The Energies of All
Chapter Five: Dear Brother
Chapter Six: A Great Affliction
Chapter Seven: An Intemerate Soul
Chapter Eight: The Insanity File
Chapter Nine: A Great Calamity is Impending
PART II: THE GREAT FIRE
Chapter Ten: Fire at the O’Learys
Chapter Eleven: She’s Off to Hell and Gone
Chapter Twelve: Imagining Things
Chapter Thirteen: The Devil It Is
Chapter Fourteen: Fall of the Courthouse
Chapter Fifteen: The Battle of Armageddon
Chapter Sixteen: The City That Made Us Rich, Then Busted Us
Chapter Seventeen: The Battle is Lost
Chapter Eighteen: The Fire’s Last Stand
PART III: THE NEW CHICAGO
Chapter Nineteen: A City in Ruins
Chapter Twenty: All Gone but Wife Children and Energy
Chapter Twenty-One: Chicago Shall Rise Again
Chapter Twenty-Two: Martial Law
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Death Room
Chapter Twenty-Four: No Sufficient Protection
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Union-Fireproof Ticket
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Building Up of the New
Chapter Twenty-Seven: We Told You So
PART I:
THE OLD CHICAGO
CHAPTER ONE:
BIGGEST BOOMTOWN IN THE WORLD
“Go West, young man, and grow up with the country!”
— Horace Greeley
SIMON CALDWELL HAD ALWAYS WANTED ADVENTURE IN HIS LIFE. Anyone who knew him— and indeed anyone who ever met him— could immediately see what a restless person he was. He rarely sat down for more than a minute at a time, and he was almost never quiet. He invariably sought out new friends and new experiences; he jumped at every chance to make something of himself, and he was determined to live his life to the fullest.
But when he headed out West in 1871, he had no idea— and really had no way of knowing— exactly what sort of adventure lay in store.
Simon had had these yearnings for as long as he could remember. He had grown up in rural New York State in a very straight-laced family. He was the third of four children, and his father tended an inn while his mother took care of the home. They lived in the village of Rhinebeck, which was tucked away in the Hudson Valley where nothing of note seemed to happen. It was a nice place to live, but Simon had always found it excruciatingly dull, and he had spent years dreaming of an escape.
Simon’s imagination, however, seemed to know no bounds. As a child, he had engrossed himself in folklore and myth, and he had learned all the stories of Hercules, Siegfried, and King Arthur. As he grew older, he discovered the works of Charles Dickens, James Fenimore Cooper, and Alexandre Dumas. Their tales helped Simon escape a mundane existence, or at least so he saw it.
But that way of life would hardly last forever. Simon was fourteen years old when the South attacked Fort Sumter and the Civil War began. His older brother Gregory immediately volunteered to fight. The Caldwells were staunch Yankees, so they supported Gregory’s enlistment. With much pomp and circumstance, Gregory joined the New York Third Infantry and left Rhinebeck for good.
Simon ached to join his brother, but to his chagrin, his parents wouldn’t allow it no matter what he said or did. His mother said he was young, and his father even said he was foolish. Simon fought with them bitterly, but his parents just shook their heads and said he’d understand when he was older. Simon thought that was ridiculous, because as far as he was concerned, his parents didn’t understand him at all.
Soon after that, Simon’s sister Clara also managed to leave town. She had met a fledgling attorney named Henry DeWitt, and after a short courtship, they married and moved to New York City. One by one, all of Simon’s friends either moved or enlisted, and Simon was left with nearly no one to talk to. Before long, the only person left was his kid brother J.J., who was too young and callow to grasp what was happening.
Since Simon wasn’t on the front lines, he was expected to help on the home front instead. He did it by working as a typesetter, so he had the task of publishing casualty lists. It turned out to be a horribly taxing job. The Battle of Shiloh caused more casualties than all of the nation’s previous wars combined; Simon had to print the names of more than thirteen thousand Union dead, wounded, and missing. The news only worsened from there. Barely five months later came the bloodiest day in American history, when the Battle of Antietam made Shiloh seem like a skirmish. But for Simon, the worst news of all came the following winter: his brother Gregory, whom he had adored, succumbed to scarlet fever in Fort Monroe, Virginia.
His brother’s death forced Simon to rethink his life. He asked himself why Gregory had died, and what he had hoped to accomplish. Gregory had always been full of ideals— about duty and nobility and honor and the like— which took on whole new meanings with his death. Simon pretended that Gregory had died for his cause; he imagined him being heroic, falling in battle, and uttering poetic last words. But in truth, Gregory hadn’t died that way at all. He had contracted his illness for no apparent reason, and he had spent his last hours twitching and hyperventilating in bed. To Simon, that was hardly an honorable or meaningful death.
In Simon’s quest for answers, he moved from printing to reporting, and he started writing for the Rhinebeck Gazette. He hoped that his new job would help him gain insight, so that he could understand the goals of the war and the reasons for the bloodshed. But in the end, he hardly learned a thing. The Gazette was too provincial a paper to send him near the front lines; in fact, it never sent him further than the nearby town of Poughkeepsie. And so, when the war ended, Simon remained as restless as ever.
By then, Simon’s desire to leave Rhinebeck had turned into a need. Like many Americans, he had never been west of the Appalachians, so he had only heard stories of the vast lands beyond. But those stories had captured his imagination in a very significant way. He knew all the tales of Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and the other frontiersmen from cowboys to gold diggers to everyone in between. He heard of all sorts of exciting adventures: the Folsom Expedition was venturing into Yellowstone, and rumors were spreading of the region’s breathtaking waterfalls, hot springs, and geysers; John Muir was setting out for Yosemite Valley; and the Powell Expedition was exploring the Grand Canyon. The West was quickly becoming known as a vast primeval expanse unlike any other place in the world.
Simon also knew— perhaps all too well— that the days of the old West were numbered. As Easterners headed into the wild, they brought with them the trappings of industry and commerce. They forced Indian tribes off their lands, then harnessed the wilderness to serve their own ends. They killed thousands of buffalo and millions of passenger pigeons, decimating the animals’ once-plentiful numbers. They also ripped apart mountains to mine the minerals inside, and they felled countless acres of forest. Simon saw those changes and understood what they meant, but like most people, he was not the least bit concerned. He saw “progress” as inevitable, and if that meant taming the West— so he thought— then that was the way it was destined to be.
By far the biggest sign of progress was the Transcontinental Railroad, the crowning engineering feat of the age. In the past, the West had been all but inaccessible, with no easy route across the mountains and deserts. The railroad cut nearly eighteen hundred miles through terrain that had been practically impassible before. It required the combined efforts of three Presidents, both parties in Congress, and the two largest corporations in America, not to mention tens of thousands of immigrant laborers. But in the end, all those efforts paid off. On May 10, 1869, the last spike was driven at Utah’s Promontory Summit, and the floodgates were opened to millions of settlers.
By the end of 1870, an enormous human migration had begun. Millions of Americans were swarming in from the East, while immigrants were arriving from every corner of Europe. Huge swaths of the country seemed to be on the make: cities were springing up out of nowhere; prairies were giving way to farms and factories; rags were turning into riches— and Simon Caldwell, like so many others, was determined to be part of the excitement.
It was then that Simon finally decided to leave. He recruited his kid brother J.J., who was making his own plans to get out of Rhinebeck. J.J. had become a local pariah, having fathered an illegitimate child, so he wanted to wipe the slate clean and start fresh somewhere else. J.J. brought along his son, and together the Caldwells set out on their trip, leaving every vestige of their old lives behind. They didn’t know what to expect, and they didn’t have the slightest idea if they’d ever come back— but they knew they were embarking on a journey they’d never forget.
And that, ultimately, was where it all began.
THE WIND WHIPPED ACROSS LAKE MICHIGAN and blew snowflakes through the air. The sky was gray and foreboding, and the waves broke into whitecaps. Swells rolled southward for miles, until they rose up and crashed against the shore. A deluge sprayed across the rocks and lashed against the tracks of the Michigan Southern Railroad.
Simon Caldwell watched silently from inside his train. He could see the storm gathering strength, but he paid it no mind. He just sat back, skimmed his newspaper, and watched the landscape go by. On his right, Lake Michigan stretched from one horizon to another. On his left was a perfectly flat prairie, interspersed with the occasional forest, inhabited only by raccoons, coyotes, and deer.
At first glance, Simon seemed like an ordinary man: he had a slight build and unruly brown hair, and he was no more or less attractive than anyone else. But he did have one thing that made him stand out, and that was his gaze. Simon’s eyes were a piercing shade of blue, and anytime he squinted or glared, he could catch the attention of anyone in sight. Simon knew that, of course, and he was learning how to use it to his advantage: he was getting adept at wheeling and dealing, and he was developing a talent for getting his way.
A waiter offered some tea, but Simon waved him away. He had no patience for tea or biscuits or any other such frivolities. He only cared about the train reaching its destination on time. Everything else, he felt, was a distraction.
J.J. Caldwell did accept the waiter’s offer. He helped himself to a handful of biscuits, stuck one in his mouth, and offered another to three-year-old Tommy.
Simon shook his head. “You oughtn’t do that,” he said. “You’ll likely spoil the child.”
“Balderdash,” J.J. said. “He’s my boy, ain’t he? Not yours.”
“Then how is he ever going to learn manners?” Simon asked.
“Oh, relax,” J.J. said, “and take a load off your feet.”
Simon rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything more. He had little patience for his brother’s reckless attitude. J.J. had never seemed to learn, even after Tommy’s birth, because he kept on carousing and making trouble as if there were no tomorrow. Simon had given up lecturing his brother. He just gritted his teeth and kept his comments to himself.
The train was headed for Chicago, which was where the Caldwells were set to get off. They had a friend there, Fletcher Bingham, who had offered to put them up for a while. Simon knew Chicago’s reputation, and he was anxious to see the city for himself. It sounded like a boisterous, brawny, heady sort of town, where nearly anyone with ambition could make a quick buck— and he wanted to see how much of that reputation was true.
Chicago was in many ways the trading post of the nation. Its original inhabitants had been Potowatomi Indians, who had named the area after its native chekougou skunkweed. French explorers first visited the region in 1674, when they traveled through a short swampy passage between the Des Plaines and Chicago Rivers. The French quickly recognized the portage’s potential. It was the only place where the Great Lakes and Mississippi watersheds met, allowing clear access to the North Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico, and the vast inland West. No other place on the continent was so well suited for trade.
Chicago’s first permanent settler was a black man, Jean Baptiste Point du Sable. He came during the American Revolution, and he helped the fledgling U.S. Army build an outpost near the lake. Fort Dearborn’s soldiers were allowed to bring their wives and children, and the fort soon resembled a little frontier village. But during the War of 1812, five hundred Potawatomi staged an ambush, killed half the settlers, and captured the rest; then they burned down the fort and left the bodies to rot. The attack became known as the Fort Dearborn Massacre, and the government responded by driving the Indians away. In 1816, the Council of Three Fires was forced to cede the surrounding lands, and in 1833, the Indians were pushed west of the Mississippi.
That same year, Chicago was incorporated as a town. Construction soon began on the Illinois and Michigan Canal, which cut through the portage to allow a clear passage for shipping. As soon as the canal opened, settlers and capital came flooding into the city. Chicago attracted tens of thousands of new people per year, and it gobbled up the prairie at an unprecedented rate.
By 1871, the city was home to three hundred thousand inhabitants, and there seemed to be no end in sight to that growth. Timber was coming in from Wisconsin to supply all the new construction. Hogs and cattle were being shipped in by the thousands, to be slaughtered and packaged and sold across the country. Corn, wheat, and barley were pouring in from the plains, turning Chicago into the world’s largest grain port. The city was also the hub for nearly every American railroad, which meant that thousands of people were being funneled through its depots each day. The downtown area, which had been a wide-open meadow a generation before, was quickly starting to resemble New York.
Chicago was, in short, the biggest boomtown the world had ever seen.
The city now took up six miles of lakeshore, from Lincoln Park in the north to the township of Hyde Park in the south. The downtown area was centered around the Chicago River’s mouth, while the river’s branches split the outlying areas into the North, South, and West divisions. The city’s elite lived along the lakeshore and parts of the North Side. The poor, who were mostly immigrants, lived in a patchwork of ethnic neighborhoods to the south and west of downtown.
The city’s most prominent building was the Courthouse, with its white stone façade and its tall gleaming dome. The Courthouse was the centerpiece of Chicago’s government and commerce; it was surrounded by a large open square, which was the busiest and most popular meeting place in town.
Another prominent structure was the Water Tower on the Near North Side. The tower was only two years old, but it had already become a local icon. The Illinois flatlands made aqueducts impossible, so the Water Works’ state-of-the-art engineering gave the city its water supply. The tower was built in a castellated Gothic style, with turrets, arrow slits, and other fortifications, as if it were holding some great danger at bay. To many, it symbolized Chicago’s battle against nature, as well as the city’s imminent victory.
As the train continued northward, the streets started teeming with people. By Twelfth Street, the city was so crowded that the tracks had to run on a trestle over the lake. The waves kept pounding the trestle, which ran parallel to the shore. Simon’s eyes darted around as he took in the sights. The downtown area was off to his left; he saw hundreds of gleaming office buildings and new ostentatious homes. Factories and grain elevators were humming with activity, carriages were racing around corners, pigeons were swarming overhead, and pedestrians were running down the wooden plank sidewalks.
The train sounded its whistle as it approached Union Depot. The station was America’s largest, located right on Michigan Avenue. The train rumbled across a series of switches, then passed through the depot’s giant triple archways. The locomotive’s brakes squealed along the tracks, and giant clouds of smoke puffed up toward the ceiling. The couplers creaked as the rail cars jostled around. Finally the train came to a halt, the boilers released their steam, and the redcaps ran up to assist.
Simon was silent as he waited for the train doors to open. A part of him was nervous, but a bigger part was excited. He swallowed, clutched his suitcase, and tried to allay the adrenaline in his veins. Then, when the attendants opened the doors, he stepped onto the platform. He waited a moment for his brother and nephew, and then the Caldwells headed into the city.
FLETCHER BINGHAM HADN’T SEEN SIMON OR J.J. IN YEARS, but he was still the same man they remembered. He remained as gangly as ever, with a scruffy beard that made his jaw seem to jut outward. He wore a perpetual scowl on his face, and a smoldering cigar still dangled from his mouth. Only one thing had changed since the men had seen each other last: Fletcher was wearing a nice new suit, a thick charcoal overcoat, and a spotless bowler hat.
Simon shook Fletcher’s hand and patted him on the back. “It’s been far too long,” he said. “So how are you, my friend?”
“In the pits, as usual,” Fletcher replied, then coughed up a cloud of smoke. “You?”
Simon shrugged. “I’m fine, I suppose,” he replied.
“Good for you,” Fletcher said. He flicked his ashes into the snow, then frowned at the child. “Who is this?”
Tommy smiled and tried to hide behind his father’s leg. “That’s my boy,” J.J. said.
“Is that so?” Fletcher asked. “Since when are you married?”
“I’m not,” J.J. said.
Simon cleared his throat and tried to take Fletcher aside. “So,” he said, “which way is your home?”
Fletcher threw away his cigar butt. He shot Simon a look, then shook his head. “All right,” he said. “Follow me.”
Simon nodded and followed suit.
“So tell me,” Fletcher said, “how is the old burg nowadays?”
“Well,” Simon replied, “I can’t say there’s been very much to report. The Beekman Arms is still there. Miss Mayfield is still snooping into everybody’s business— she’s gotten a bit older, but apart from that, she hasn’t changed a bit. Joseph remains madly in love with Miss Wood although no one has figured out why. Old Ronald is still sitting at his press, just as he’s been doing since Gutenberg printed the Bible— although he did move his shop to Market Street, if you can imagine that.”
Fletcher scoffed. “How exciting,” he said.
“Yes, well, that’s not the type of excitement I’m after.”
“So I hear,” Fletcher said.
J.J. didn’t much like Fletcher— nor did most people who knew him— but Simon found him amusing. Simon had always seen Fletcher as a mysterious soul, since Simon had known him for years but had never learned much about him. The two had met in an innocuous way, when Fletcher stayed at the Caldwell family inn. Fletcher had caught their attention by hesitating to give his name and refusing to divulge his hometown. Simon used his imagination to fill in the blanks. He imagined that Fletcher was running from something— whether from the law, or from a creditor, or from an angry jilted lover, Simon could not say. The two spent a great deal of time together, especially during a five-month period when they worked together at the printer’s. Simon spent those months trying to determine what Fletcher was about, but in the end, he didn’t learn much. Fletcher soon left Rhinebeck and bounced from place to place, although he and Simon did remain in touch. Simon had often encouraged Fletcher to make himself respectable; and from what Simon could now see, Fletcher had followed his advice.
The men soon came to an opulent building. Fletcher had started his own business barely two years before, but he had already acquired all the trappings of wealth. He lived in the heart of downtown, barely a block from the Courthouse. Simon and J.J. couldn’t help but be impressed.
Fletcher had made his money in the futures market, which was a new form of investment unique to Chicago. In fact, futures were so risky— and their losses and payoffs so large— that they were more akin to gambling than investment per se. They had to do with food prices, which were notoriously unstable. For as long as anyone could remember, farmers had just sold their wares at the going rate of the moment. But most farms were just family operations, so they had a hard time weathering the ups and downs of the business. As Illinois farming expanded, the industry needed a stronger financial footing, so the Chicago Board of Trade began buying and selling commodities “for future delivery.” Entrepreneurs could order grain or livestock ahead of time at an agreed-upon price, which would protect the farmers from price changes. Then, when the farmers delivered the goods, the entrepreneurs could immediately re-sell them at the going market rate. If the price had gone up in the meantime, then the speculators would make an instant profit; but if the price had gone down, then they were the ones who absorbed the loss. If the men played their cards right, they could hit one jackpot after another. And that was what Fletcher Bingham had done.
The building’s ground-floor office was teeming with people. Financiers were shaking hands and negotiating deals, while secretaries were delivering messages and organizing huge stacks of paper, and vast sums of money were constantly changing hands.
Fletcher led the Caldwells to his apartment upstairs. His suite was just above his offices, appointed with new couches, velvet curtains, and thick soft carpets. A set of glass doors opened onto a balcony, which overlooked the corner of Madison and LaSalle.
“Bully,” J.J. said as he laid down his things. “It’s a step up from your apartment before.”
“Well, I’ve moved up in the world,” Fletcher said. “Now I ride only the best whores in town.”
J.J. laughed, but Simon was not amused. He had half a mind to cover Tommy’s ears.
“Oh yeah,” Fletcher said. “Your old man wouldn’t approve of that, would he?”
“My father doesn’t approve of many things,” Simon replied. Elijah Caldwell was quite the moralist; he could recite a Bible verse for nearly any occasion, and he had clashed with his children quite a bit.
J.J. scooped up his son. “You don’t mind, do you Tommy?” he asked.
“You bad,” Tommy said as he slapped his father in the face. J.J. responded in kind, and the two began roughhousing on the couch.
Simon rolled his eyes. “For heaven’s sakes,” he said. “Now we’ve got two boys in our party, instead of just one.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” Fletcher said. “Your brother’s your brother. He ain’t gonna change.” He began sorting through his mail. “So how the devil is your father?”
“Well,” Simon replied, “he’s the same as before. He wants me to stay in Rhinebeck for the rest of my life. Now pray tell me, what is there in Rhinebeck for me?”
Fletcher shrugged. “What’d you expect?” he asked. He picked a card out of his mail and put it on his table.
“What’s that?” Simon asked as he looked at the card.
“Huh?” Fletcher asked before he realized what Simon meant. “Oh, that ain’t important. It’s just some society shindig.”
Simon examined the card; it was an invitation with the words Chicago Club in fine script. From the look of the invitation, Simon figured it must be a fancy affair.
“Now don’t get yourself any ideas,” Fletcher said. “I ain’t gonna have you mooch on my account— I ain’t sticking my neck out for you.”
“I never asked for your help,” Simon replied, “and I don’t intend to take it. I can make my own way in the world.”
“Is that so?” Fletcher asked. “How do you plan to do that? You ain’t still wanting to do that reporting claptrap, are you?”
Simon nodded. “In fact, that’s precisely what I intend,” he replied.
“Why? There ain’t no money in it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Simon shot back. He had very little interest in money, but he had a great deal of interest in power. At that point, editors and publishers had such a bully pulpit that they were often famous in their own right. For example, New York Tribune publisher Horace Greeley was one of the most prominent men in America. He had helped frame the debate over slavery and Reconstruction, he was a driving force behind the nation’s westward expansion, and he was expected to be a front-runner in the 1872 Presidential race even though he had never before held elective office.
Simon was about to elaborate, but at that moment, J.J. and Tommy wrestled each other off the couch. As they did, they knocked over a porcelain vase, which shattered against J.J.’s head.
“Damn it!” Fletcher said as he went to clean up the mess.
“Oops,” J.J. said.
“You idiot,” Fletcher snapped. “You’ll have to pay me good money for that.”
Simon watched the scene but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t help thinking that Fletcher had been right; his brother would likely never change. Then Simon sighed, turned away, and stepped out to the balcony.
From where he stood, he could see the Chicago Evening Post building about a block away, and a little further down was the Chicago Tribune. The city’s other major paper, the Chicago Times, was around the corner on Dearborn Street. The city boasted a handful of smaller papers as well, including the Republican, the Evening Mail, the Journal, the German-language Staats-Zeitung and Volks-Zeitung, and a handful of religious and special-interest papers. They all competed for readership, and they were all full of opportunities for an ambitious young man.
As Simon stared out at the streets, the wind stopped blowing and the clouds cleared away. Night fell almost imperceptibly; the lights of Chicago began to come on, but the city’s hustle and bustle showed no signs of slowing down.
Simon kept trying to think of the future, but despite his best efforts, he found himself drawn to the past. He kept hearing his father’s warnings echoing through his head. He could see the look in his mother’s eyes as they parted at the station, and he couldn’t forget the last words she said to him: Godspeed, my son, and God bless.
Simon let out a snort, and a puff of breath appeared. He was annoyed at himself for feeling nervous at all. Chicago seemed like just the place he’d been looking for, and if Fletcher could become such a success, then Simon felt he himself could do it too.
Simon stepped away from the window and began going through his luggage. He pulled out two of his favorite books— Waverley and The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon— and then, in the bottom of his suitcase, he found his most treasured possession. It seemed unassuming at first, just a yellowed piece of paper; but in truth, it meant more to him than he dared admit.
It was the last letter he’d received from his older brother Gregory. In fact, Gregory had died by the time the letter had gotten to Rhinebeck, and Simon had always cherished the way it allowed him to speak from the grave. The words were written in Gregory’s inimitable style, full of misspellings in an almost illegible scrawl:
Dear Brother—
It is with much plesure that I write you in answer to your most welcomd missive that I receivd yesterday & you cannt imagine how glad I was to hear from home once more.
I was relievd to hear that you had regaind your health— my own fever has improvd & soon I shall be verry near as strong as I was before. They have got us all out in tents where we have good beds to sleep on. it is mor healthy than it was in the hospitals It is plesant but the wind blows cold hear to day.
Mother wishes I could get a furlow. Tell her I would love to come home but it is almost impossible now. I must be content to wait & if permited to live to see the close of the war or expiration of our time of service then I exspect to return post haste.
I am sorrow to tell you that little Johnny Witherbee of Company A died last night. diseas typhoid fever we mourn his loss verry much. his mother stayd with him over a fortnight before he died. She starts home with his remains in the morning. You know there is thousands of poor soldiers that will see home & friends no more in this world. if you saw the number of sick & maimd it would make your hart bleed.
But anough of the hard side of soldiering I dont think that I am home sick or disheartend for such is not the case for I am only telling you a few simple facts. I like army life first rate it suits me well. if we had our choice of course we would be home for we are not here for fun nor money but we wish never to fill a cowards grave. I wish not to return home permantly untill this immoral & traiterous rebellion is ended. make no mistake— this world must be transformd & when given such a chance, we must not let it go to waste.
When I return you must pick me a woman from among the ladies there. I haint seen a pretty girl since I left Suffolk if there is any pretty girls around old point Comfort they have keppt out of sight I havent seen mor than 4 wimmin since I been here.
Oh dear Brother how I would like to see you. But I must close for the mail will soon leave Please write soon & give all the news & please excuse my poorly writen remarks I will try to do better in the future
In haste yours truly
Gregory M Caldwell
Simon read the letter and sighed. Despite the passage of time, Gregory’s words still haunted him as much as they ever had. The letter reminded Simon of how short life could be. In some ways, he still couldn’t believe Gregory was gone; he felt as though his brother was still watching his every move. Simon didn’t think he believed in the afterlife, but he still wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t disappoint. He read one line in particular— when given such a chance, we must not to let it go to waste— and he vowed to live up to that spirit. He was ready to move heaven and earth to make his brother proud. Simon felt he had no time to lose; he had to roll up his shirtsleeves and get to it, and thanks to Fletcher Bingham, he knew exactly where to start.
CHAPTER TWO:
THE PRINCE OF RAILS
“One of the unpleasantest consequences of political success is that however little it may have to do with that success, his whole life is exposed... the annoyance I am subjected to sometimes is nearly intolerable.”
— Robert Todd Lincoln
THE CHICAGO CLUB WAS THE CLASSIEST, MOST ELITE SOCIAL CLUB IN THE CITY. Its membership rolls were a who’s-who of society, with names like Cyrus McCormick, Marshall Field, and other titans of the age. The club was housed in an elegant downtown building where only the richest and most successful could ever hope to enter. Women, reporters, and other “rabble” were banned so that members could smoke their cigars and sip their brandies in peace. The Chicago Club resembled the old-money cliques of New York or Boston, except for one important difference. Its members did not have a dime of old money between them; every single member was an ambitious self-made man.
By February, Fletcher Bingham had made enough money to be inducted into the club. Simon was impressed, since he had never seen Fletcher as a society type. Simon was anxious to attend the ceremony himself, for he knew how powerful the club members were, and he was anxious to make connections. He knew he couldn’t get in the usual way because the doormen were checking invitations; but he was not about to let a lowly doorman stop him.
Simon rented a tuxedo, slicked his hair back, and polished up on his manners. He then went before a mirror to practice his posture and fiddle with his cummerbund. Then, when Fletcher left his apartment, Simon followed close behind. He snuck into an alley and found the clubhouse’s rear entrance. He watched as the butlers brought in crates of wine and cognac. Simon waited until the butlers turned their backs, and then he made his move: he slipped through the door, strode through the kitchen, and walked into the parlor as if he belonged there.
Some of the club members were instantly recognizable. George Pullman, for example, was a nationally known tycoon. He had begun his career as a city engineer, but he had made his real money with a company of his own. The Pullman Palace Car Company had introduced the “hotel on wheels,” which allowed passengers to ride the rails in style. By 1871, Pullman was expanding his business into every aspect of travel. He was even planning to buy some railroads of his own: the Union Pacific Railway was in dire financial straits, and Pullman was working with Andrew Carnegie to bail out the company. That would give him control over much of the nation’s rail network, including half of the Transcontinental Railroad.
John Burroughs Drake was not nearly so famous, but he was a well-known man nonetheless. He was a hotel magnate, and his Tremont House was one of the finest hotels in the West. His guests had included the most notable men in America, from Stephen Douglas to Ralph Waldo Emerson, and his Thanksgiving dinner was a mainstay of Chicago society. Drake had an interest in the less fortunate too: before the war, he had been a conductor on the Underground Railroad, and he had helped thousands of slaves run away to the North.
“I would like to propose a toast,” came a voice.
Simon looked up to the middle-aged man before him. The man was large and paunchy, with a balding scalp and a thick walrus mustache. Simon grabbed a nearby glass, which a waiter promptly filled with champagne.
“To Chicago,” the man said, “the city that made us all rich!”
Several men said “hear hear,” and the club members lifted their drinks. Simon nodded and tapped his glass against that of a young man beside him. Then he noticed the young man’s face, and he couldn’t help thinking that the fellow seemed familiar. As Simon sipped his drink, he looked discreetly in the other man’s direction, and he kept wondering where he’d seen him before. This gentleman seemed both modest and sophisticated: he was of medium height, with short brown hair and a stylish goatee, and he was dressed in a tailored frock coat and tie. Unlike the other men, he didn’t seem boastful, blustery, or intimidating at all.
Simon made the most casual remark he could think of. “So,” he said, “how well do you know Mister Bingham?”
“Not particularly well,” the young gentleman said. “I just met him. And you?”
“He and I are old friends,” Simon replied. “We worked as pressmen together.”
“Pressmen?” he asked. “That must have been some time ago.”
Simon shrugged. “I suppose,” he replied as Fletcher walked by. Fletcher blinked with surprise and opened his mouth to say something; but then he changed his mind, rolled his eyes, and turned away. Simon ignored him and continued the conversation.
Simon found the young man to be an excellent speaker. The fellow didn’t discuss anything personal, but he was very urbane and knowledgeable about any number of subjects. He and Simon covered all the usual topics, from weather to the news, before Simon realized who this gentleman was. He was an up-and-coming lawyer who tried to avoid publicity, but at the same time, he was a hard person to miss. Simon was standing in the shadow of greatness— in fact, the man’s last name was a synonym for hard work and ambition.
The man was Robert Todd Lincoln, the son of the great President himself.
ROBERT LINCOLN WAS, IN HIS HEART, A NORMAL YOUNG MAN. But as fate would have it, he was never able to live a normal life. His childhood had seemed ordinary enough: he was born and raised in Springfield, Illinois, and he had spent his formative years going to school, making mischief with his friends, and doing all the other things that healthy boys do. He had three younger brothers named Eddie, Willie, and Tad, although Eddie had died so young that Robert barely remembered him.
His parents, however, were no ordinary folk. Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln were a force to be reckoned with, in both the public and private arenas of their lives. To the young Robert, his parents were just “Father” and “Mother,” and like most children, he assumed that his parents were normal. He did know that his father was a very busy man, since it was always a struggle to get him home in time for dinner. Still, Robert ignored his parents when they discussed “grown-up things.” He didn’t care what his father did at work, nor did he understand why his parents cared so much about it.
That began to change when Robert was a teenager. Abraham Lincoln made two runs for the Senate, and at first, Robert didn’t think much of it. But when he joined his father on the campaign trail, he began to realize that something was afoot. Huge crowds were turning out for his stump speeches, and Robert was shocked that so many people would care about what his old man had to say. Slowly but surely, Robert began to recognize that his father was no ordinary fellow.
Robert soon began showing ambitions of his own. When it came time to look at colleges, he wanted only the best. Robert was determined to get into Harvard, but to his great chagrin, he failed the entrance exam on first try. Still, he didn’t let that stop him. He enrolled at Phillips Exeter Academy, and he spent his entire time there studying for a re-exam. Then he passed the exam and was accepted into Harvard the second time around.
Robert’s accomplishments were then lost in the hubbub, for that was the year his father became President. At first, no one had expected Abraham Lincoln to win the election, since he was running against several better-known and better-qualified candidates. But as it turned out, his opposition was so splintered that he carried the night. The whole country was thrown into a tizzy, and Robert found himself at the center of it all. At first he made light of things: one night, as his family greeted well-wishers, Robert greeted his father with an exaggerated “good evening, Mister Lincoln!” and his father gave him a playful slap in the face. Another time, after a typical father-son spat, Robert quipped that “I have just had a great row with the President of the United States.”
Before long, though, Robert found himself in an uncomfortable spotlight. His family was inevitably hounded by the press, and his life was constantly placed on display. Robert was dubbed “the Prince of Rails,” which was a play on his father’s nickname— the Railsplitter— and the British heir to the throne. Robert hated that name, but he could not escape it, and his relations with the press only soured with time. If he avoided reporters, then he was portrayed as haughty and aloof; but if he didn’t, then he was accused of hogging the spotlight and taking advantage of his father’s position.
The only solution was for him to ignore the press altogether. He spent most of his college years like any other student: he attended his classes, worked hard on his assignments, and went out drinking with friends. But he did find, to his delight, that his name helped him get girls, and that was the one arena of his life in which he relished the attention. Robert was already a prized catch to begin with— being a smart, sophisticated, good-looking young man— and a father in the White House made him all but irresistible. He was soon courting the most sought-after ladies in the country.
Robert was drawn to women with similar backgrounds. At one point he was with the daughter of Friedrich von Gerolt, the Prussian minister to the United States. Then he was linked to Lucy Hale, the daughter of Senator John Hale; but she became engaged to another famous man, the great Shakespearean actor John Wilkes Booth.
Then, in February 1862, an urgent telegram arrived. His brothers had fallen ill with what appeared to be typhoid. Robert rushed to Washington to find both Willie and Tad at death’s door. His parents were beside themselves with anguish. Robert wanted to help, but neither he nor the doctors could do anything. In the end, Tad pulled through but Willie did not. Willie’s death devastated the family. Robert’s mother took the loss particularly hard, and his father was already carrying monumental burdens. It fell to Robert to offer comfort and support.
Robert vowed to do everything in his power to be there for his family, and in his mind, the best way to do it was to fight for his father. Abraham Lincoln was a very capable President, but Robert knew he was still human. The war had become an all-consuming effort; Robert witnessed many fretful meetings and sleepless nights, and he even found his father in tears after the Battle of Gettysburg. Robert believed in his father, he believed in the Union, and he wanted to serve accordingly. But his mother was steadfastly against it.
“We have lost one son,” Mary said, “and his loss is as much as I can bear, without being called to make another sacrifice.”
Abraham Lincoln’s reply was simple. “But many a poor mother has given up all her sons, and our son is not more dear to us than the sons of other people are to their mothers.” Lincoln understood the risks of taking up arms, but he also knew that it had to be done.
Robert wanted to press the issue, but after much discussion, he and his father decided to tread lightly. Mary was so grief-stricken that the rest of the family feared for her sanity. Robert opted to give her time. It was not an easy decision to make, since the war was only escalating. Many battlefields were perilously close to Washington, to the point where soldiers were quartered in the White House, and the South Lawn was being used as a drill field. Robert hoped and prayed he could do something before it was too late.
During that time, he met a girl named Mary Harlan. This Mary also came from a small town— Mount Pleasant, Iowa— but she was just as worldly as Robert. Her father was Senator James Harlan, who had sent her to the finest finishing school in the capital. By the time Robert met her, she had acquired impeccable manners, a flawless command of the French language, and an intimate knowledge of Washington society. Robert fell for her immediately.
It was then that duty called. His mother’s emotional wounds were beginning to heal, and now that he had a sweetheart, he had more to fight for than ever. Moreover, his father was up for re-election, and no President since Andrew Jackson had ever won a second term. With the bloodshed at a fever pitch, many Americans were desperate for peace. Critics were pointing out Robert’s lack of service, and he didn’t want to cost his father the White House. Robert decided that enough was enough. At the President’s request, Ulysses S. Grant agreed to place him on his staff, where Robert became a captain and assistant adjutant general of volunteers.
Robert shipped out to City Point, Virginia, to the grueling Siege of Petersburg. That area was key for both sides, so neither army wanted to give any ground. The Confederates hunkered down behind their fortifications, while the Union built miles upon miles of trenches. Despite more than a dozen major battles and nearly seventy thousand casualties, there was no end in sight to the stalemate.
Robert soon became accustomed to military life. The fighting ebbed and flowed, but Robert didn’t mind. He was proud to be in uniform, and he and Grant developed a bond. In March 1865, he played host to his father as the President inspected his troops. Mary Harlan was part of Lincoln’s entourage, and Robert stole private moments with her whenever he could.
Finally, on April 1, 1865, General Philip Henry Sheridan won the Battle of Five Forks. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back: the rebel lines collapsed, and Petersburg fell to the Yankees. That left the Confederate capital of Richmond virtually unprotected, and in less than forty-eight hours, Union troops marched into the city. The Southern government fled to Danville, Virginia, while the army retreated up the Appomattox Valley. Grant and his men kept up a relentless pursuit, and within a week, it was over. General Robert E. Lee agreed to surrender at Appomattox Court House.
Robert witnessed the surrender from beginning to end. He stood on the McLean House porch as the generals met, exchanged formalities, and sat down in the parlor. Robert watched with General Sheridan at his side as Lee and Grant drew up the papers. It was a surreal, spellbinding moment, with the defeated Lee remaining a gentleman to the end. Finally, with the stroke of a pen, the war’s epic battles were over.
That night, Robert accompanied Grant as he headed back to Washington. Their route was an obstacle course of blocked roads, burned bridges, and torn-up railroads. Dead horses lay strewn across the landscape, and vultures picked at the corpses until all the flesh was gone. Robert kept wondering how such horrible spectacles could have come about. Still, by the time the party reached the Potomac, Robert assumed that his odyssey was over. He had no idea that the climax of the war— and the defining day of his life— was yet to come.
They arrived in Washington on the morning of April 14. Robert expected the capital to be quiet, since everything was closed for Good Friday. But to his surprise, the city was giddy with celebration. Flags and banners were hanging from every building. The papers were fawning over President Lincoln, who had finally saved the Union after all. Bands were playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and a five-hundred-gun salute had shattered windows in Lafayette Square.
Robert arrived at the White House to find his parents and his brother at breakfast. He quickly found himself at the center of attention. His mother was immensely relieved to see him, his father wanted to know every detail of Appomattox, and Tad wanted to hear all of Brother Bob’s adventures. Robert greeted them in kind, and he spent the next hour regaling them with his stories. The whole family was in high spirits, since no one understood the importance of victory more than the Lincolns.
“Well, my son, you have returned safely from the front,” his father said, and he voiced his hope for lasting peace. “Now listen to me, Robert. You must lay aside your uniform and return to college. I wish you to read law for three years, and at the end of that I hope that we will be able to tell whether you will make a good lawyer or not.”
Robert didn’t always listen to his father, but in that instance, he promised to take his advice. He didn’t know what the future might hold, but he was ready and anxious to find out.
Then the conversation shifted to lighter affairs. Mary wanted to discuss the family’s Easter weekend plans. The Lincolns were avid theatergoers, and she was thinking of buying tickets to see Our American Cousin. The President liked the idea, but the boys were not interested. Tad had no desire to see talky grown-up plays— he was anxious to see Aladdin instead— and Robert was still tired from his journey.
By and by, a messenger announced that the Speaker of the House had arrived. The President acknowledged the message and finished his coffee. Then he patted Robert’s shoulder and excused himself from the table.
Robert spent the day with his best friend John Hay. The two men were practically brothers, having known each other since prep school. Hay had worked as a law clerk in Springfield, so he had gotten to know the Lincolns both personally and professionally. They were so close that Hay had lived with the family in the White House, and he had worked as the President’s personal secretary. Hay was one of the few people who knew Robert well enough to let him truly be himself.
That night, as the President was leaving, he reiterated his invitation: “We’re going to the theater, Bob, don’t you want to go?”
Robert thanked him for the offer, but again he turned him down. At the time, he didn’t think anything of it.
Then, a few hours later, Robert heard a commotion outside. At first he ignored it; he assumed it was a victory celebration or perhaps a joyous homecoming. But then he looked out the window and saw cavalry rushing down the street. A confused voice echoed from downstairs. Robert knew right away that something was wrong.
A moment later his door burst open, and White House guard Tom Pendel came in. “Something happened to the President,” Pendel said. “You had better go down to the theater and see what it is.”
Robert sprinted downstairs with Hay close behind. He was ready to run all the way to the theater, but when he came to the North Portico, he found that a crowd was already gathering.
Senator Charles Sumner beckoned him to a carriage. “Come quickly,” he said.
“What happened?” Robert yelled as he and Hay climbed in.
“I don’t know,” Sumner said.
As the driver whipped the reins, someone yelled out that the Cabinet had been killed. Robert’s heart pounded. He desperately hoped the rumor was untrue, but he couldn’t deny what he was seeing. Washington was falling into chaos: church bells were tolling, the streets were flooding with people, and all the key government offices were being placed under guard. Whatever had happened, it was clearly unprecedented.
The carriage came around a corner to find Tenth Street cordoned off. A throng had assembled in front of Ford’s Theatre, and soldiers were blocking the entrance to a nearby boarding house. Robert jumped out of the carriage, but the soldiers wouldn’t let him pass.
“It’s my father!” Robert yelled. “My father! I’m Robert Lincoln.”
The commanding officer recognized him. “Let him through,” he said.
Robert scrambled up the front steps with Hay and Sumner close behind. The Lincolns’ family physician, Doctor Robert K. Stone, was standing at the door. He saw Robert coming, turned down his head, and quietly broke the news. John Wilkes Booth had shot the President at point-blank range. The wound was clearly mortal; his father could only live for a few hours at most.
Robert stood in shock at first, then choked down a lump in his throat. He lost his composure for a moment, but then he put his hand to his forehead. He took a deep breath, steeled himself for what might happen next, and finally stepped into the house.
Doctor Stone led him down a hallway, where an unmistakable blood trail led to a back room. Robert could hear his mother’s cries, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. His heart jumped into his throat when he heard his father’s voice, but then he realized it was not speech, it was only labored breathing. Then Robert stepped into the back room and froze.
Abraham Lincoln lay unconscious in a small double bed. A half-dozen doctors were attending to him, but they knew there was no chance of saving the President’s life. Lincoln was too tall to lie in the bed comfortably, so the doctors had lain him in an awkward diagonal position. His head wound was not visible, but his pillow was soaked with blood.
Robert stood motionless for a moment, then leaned down. “Father?” he said.
“It’s no use,” came a voice. “He can’t hear you. He is dead.”
“No, he isn’t dead,” Sumner said. “Look at his face, he is breathing.”
“It will never be any more than this.”
Robert turned to Sumner and put his face on his shoulder. Panic and disbelief welled up inside him, and he had to struggle to keep from going into hysterics. He felt as if he were living a nightmare, with sounds and images blurring together in his head.
His mother was even more shocked than he. Mary had been holding her husband’s hand at the moment he was shot, so she had felt his body jerk in a reflex. She had initially flown into a panic, but by the time Robert arrived, her exhaustion had taken over. She seemed to be in a trance, refusing to speak or acknowledge anyone’s presence. Robert tried to comfort her, but Mary would not be consoled. At times she refused to believe that her husband was dying; she would periodically run to his bedside, shower his face with kisses, and call him by endearing names. “Love,” she said, “live one moment to speak to me once, to speak to our children.” But she never received a response.
Lincoln’s wound would have killed a normal man in an hour, but his legendary stamina kept him alive all night. Still, by seven o’clock in the morning, his breathing had grown shallow. Countless high government officials came to pay their respects. The crowds outside refused to disperse, even when a heavy downpour began. Robert stood at the end of the bed and watched his father’s final struggle. Tears welled up in Robert’s eyes, and he tried to hide the quiver in his lip. Senator Sumner put his arm around him, and John Hay put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Doctor Charles Leale kept his finger on the President’s pulse while the other men bowed their heads in respect.
Finally, at 7:22 am, Lincoln’s breathing stopped and his pulse disappeared. Leale exchanged knowing glances with Surgeon General J.K. Barnes. Then Barnes crossed the President’s arms across his chest and whispered, “he is gone.”
The room was silent at first. Robert couldn’t believe that his father was dead. Abraham Lincoln had just achieved the crowning victory of his life, and he was already being called the greatest President of all time. It was unthinkable for him to be struck down in his moment of triumph, but that was exactly what had just happened. As reality sank in, the men knelt at his bedside. Reverend Phineas Gurley said a prayer. Then, when the prayer was over, Edwin Stanton whispered the words, “now he belongs to the ages.”
Robert could hardly remember what happened after that. He could hear his mother sobbing in the next room; he vaguely recalled leading her outside to their carriage, and he was able to sense the muddy, dreary trip back to the White House. And then he heard Tad’s plaintive cries: “They’ve killed Papa dead! They’ve killed Papa dead!” But from there on out, he couldn’t remember a thing.
Robert’s state lasted for days, until he forced himself to his senses. The funeral arrangements had to be made, the estate had to be settled, and the new President had to move into the White House. Mary Lincoln was too grief-stricken to do much of anything, so the responsibility again fell on Robert’s shoulders. He found that being busy helped him deal with his grief, but there was one thing he simply couldn’t handle— namely his guilt.
Robert kept asking himself why he had declined his father’s invitation. He learned that there had been one empty seat in the theater box that night, and it would have been Robert’s if he had agreed to attend. That seat was just to the right of the door, so Robert would have seen Booth enter, and he could have stopped him before he reached his father. Robert soon found himself obsessing over the matter. He spent a great deal of time at the shuttered Ford’s Theatre; he would sit alone in the box, which was still stained with blood, and he would try to reenact the scene. He was convinced that he could have saved his father’s life if he had been there.
On May 22, the Lincolns left the nation’s capital and moved back to Illinois. The original plan had been to head home to Springfield, but Mary couldn’t bear to be reminded of her husband, so the family went to Chicago instead. Chicago turned out to be the right place for all of them. Robert was able to finish his law studies, and his mother was able to rebuild her life while staying close to her friends. Tad managed to grow up in a fairly normal way.
During that time, the family’s money was tight. With their breadwinner gone, the Lincolns had to find new ways to make ends meet. Abraham Lincoln did leave an inheritance— having run a successful law practice for years— but he hadn’t left a will, which meant that his estate had to go through probate court. That was a long drawn-out process, and the family saw little money until it was over.