Fire: Chicago 1871 (3 page)

Mr. Dwight cleared his throat. “Why not? If you're far enough away, it's exciting. It's not the crowd's fault that there hasn't been enough rain this year.”

“The
Tribune
has run a dozen articles about the fire hazard,” Mr. Thomas put in. “If they could get the Common Council to listen to them—”

“They would have to rebuild much of the city to make any real difference,” Mr. Oliver broke in. “If the drought and the winds keep up, they may have little choice. Last night's fire is still a bed of hot coals in some places.”

“But nobody can stop the fires, can they?” Nate asked.

“Chief Williams has all but begged the Council to put more money into new and bigger engines. I saw enough frayed hoses and worn fittings last
night to make me wonder if anyone cares at all whether the whole damn place burns down.”

“Oh, Brian, please don't curse.”

Mr. Oliver patted his wife's hand and put his attention back on his plate. Mr. Thomas fell silent, too. Nate waited, wishing he could ask more questions, but Aunt Ruth sent him another of her sharp glances.

“All this talk about fire is so upsetting,” Mrs. Oliver said to no one in particular.

Mr. Dwight made a sympathetic sound deep in his throat. “With any luck, we'll have rain soon.”

“I was scheduled to work tonight,” Mr. Thomas said, refolding his napkin. “A sleeper train to Milwaukee. But so much coal was lost down there that they've delayed until they can see what's what.”

Outside, one of the shutters slipped free of its bracket and banged against the side of the house. Nate stood up. “I'll fasten it,” he told his aunt. She nodded.

Nate went through the little parlor, then out the front door. The dry wind slapped at him, and he looked up at the stars, then back at the city. In this wind, a fire would be almost impossible for the firemen to put out.

◊ ◊ ◊

The wind whipped Julie's hair across her face as she came out the door into the alley. She liked the Cass Street store. It was smaller than some of the others her father owned, but the building was new and it smelled of clean, fresh lumber.

Her arms ached from carrying the ten-pound sacks of flour out to the wagon. She didn't complain. Her father had been working like a demon, loading tins of coffee and sugar, then fifty-pound sacks of potatoes he stacked near the front of the wagon. She was piling the flour sacks near the rear gate, placing the bags as far up onto the wagon bed as she could.

“Watch your dress,” her father said, glancing sideways at her. “Your mother will have my head if you ruin it.”

Julie nodded and tried to walk a little faster. Her father was restacking the flour sacks up near the driver's bench, his movements smooth and practiced. He had driven a delivery wagon for five years before he had opened his first grocery.

Julie watched her father straighten his back and pull a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He wiped his face. “It's still warm out, even now with the sun almost down.”

Julie faced into the wind so that her hair streamed out behind her. “It feels so good to be out tonight.”

Her father laughed. “Maybe you can come help in the Polk Street store tomorrow. I still have one clerk out sick there. And I want to keep an eye on that new manager. I am not quite sure I trust him entirely.”

Julie looked up at him. “Do you think he would steal from you?”

“Probably not.” Her father squared up a stack of sugar bags, then he looked at her. “But the man is careless. I found three sacks of spoiled oats in the storeroom. They had gotten wet from a roof leak. Maybe you could help out down there for the next week or so.”

Julie grinned. “Could I?” She loved working in her father's stores, but her mother almost never allowed it. She thought that shop work was too common, and that it was beneath Julie to wait on the cooks and housekeepers who came to buy groceries for their employers' kitchens.

Staring at her father's thoughtful frown, Julie shook her head. Her mother wouldn't let her. “I have lessons tomorrow anyway, Father. And Mother wants me to begin reading that book on etiquette.”

Her father moved a few more flour sacks to the front of the wagon. “I want you to grow up to be a proper lady, but it's not right for you to stay in that house all the time.”

Julie nodded. “But Mother—”

“I know,” her father interrupted. “Your mother worries about everything. I don't want you exposed to improper influences any more than she does. But you must learn something about life.” He looked up at the hazy sky, then smiled at her. “This would have taken me a lot longer if you hadn't come along.”

“I like helping you, Father.”

“You're good at it, too. Mrs. Hansen was telling me how you helped her carry her groceries out to her wagon.”

Julie grinned, as she always did when her father complimented her. She went to get another sack of flour.

“Just bring that one, and then let's load some beans and maybe some fresh bread,” her father called after her. “Lots of these women aren't going to have a place to cook for a while.”

Julie started bringing the brown paper bags of beans, handing them to her father so he could arrange
them neatly up against the flour. When the wagon was full of groceries, Julie's father boosted her onto the bench.

He backed the wagon around, turning to go down the alley. Once they were out on Cass Street, he whipped the team into a spanking trot. It was getting dusky; the lamplighters would soon make their rounds. Julie pushed her hair back from her face and held it against the wind.

After a few minutes, Julie's father swung the team westward onto Madison Street, heading almost straight into the wind. Ahead of them, the south branch of the Chicago River flowed in a wide, dark ribbon, cutting across the city. The sky was still hazy with smoke from last night's fire.

Julie slid closer to her father as he urged the team into a canter. When they crossed Wells Street and passed into Conley's Patch, Julie gripped the edge of the driver's bench. She hated this place. As they rolled past the saloons and the shanties, her father kept the team moving fast. Men stood in the doorways, some of them drinking from bottles, others staring out into the street as though the world were a place to hate.

As the horses clopped across the Madison Street Bridge and Conley's Patch fell behind them, Julie relaxed and her father let the team slow back into a trot. Julie gathered her hair in one hand and looked down into the dark water below.

There were ships on the river. Julie could hear the sailors shouting as they worked to take down their sails. She glanced at her father. His face was stern, remote.

“What's the matter, Father?”

He seemed startled, then patted her arm. “Look.”

Julie followed his gesture. There was a blackened strip of land along the far shore. “The fire?”

He nodded. “I just wish this blasted wind would die down.”

Julie gripped the edge of the bench as they came off the bridge and headed toward Canal Street. Two wagons approached them going east. They were loaded with charred lumber and piles of goods so jumbled that Julie couldn't tell what they were. Her father raised a hand in greeting, but neither driver so much as looked at him.

Julie scooted closer to her father on the bench again. The wind was warm, and she rode along in
silence as they turned south on Canal Street. She held her nose against the acrid, smoky smell of the burn as they drove past it, crossing Jackson Street, on down to Van Buren. Julie stared. Most of the houses had been burned to the ground, and she suddenly understood what had been in the wagons—the charred remains of houses. For an instant she imagined what it would be like to have her own home destroyed.

“Look there,” her father said as he pulled the team around the sharp corner onto Taylor. “Mr. Black is still in his shop.”

Julie leaned forward. She could see the lighted lamp in the bookstore window.

“I know what.” Julie's father turned to smile at her. “You can go in and see what Mr. Black has to say for himself while I deliver the groceries to the parish.”

Julie nodded eagerly. “I'd like that.” She had known Mr. Black all her life. He was one of her father's oldest friends. He loved books and reading more than anything, and he knew the answer to almost any question.

Julie's father clucked to the team and cracked the whip high above their backs. “You can take a look at that new Jules Verne novel. What is it?”

“
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
,” she whispered excitedly. Her mother had never approved of her reading the French author's fanciful tales.

“That's the one.”

Julie took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. She liked Mr. Black and she loved Jules Verne's books. This was going to be a lot more fun than unloading groceries. She felt a stab of guilt at the thought and faced her father. “Are you sure you don't need help?”

He shook his head. “There will be plenty of men there to help unload. If you like the Verne novel, I'll buy it for you.”

Julie smiled at him, then narrowed her eyes as the wind spattered her with sand. The horses' hooves made a drumlike thudding on the board-covered street. It was a wild and beautiful night, and Julie kept glancing up at her father, grateful that he had talked her mother into letting her come.

Black's Bookstore was in a small and charming building that had once been a house. Mr. Black had thought about moving his business to Booksellers Row up on State Street and Washington. Julie wished he had—it would have been almost close enough for her to walk to sometimes. But Mr. Black said the rent
in the north division was higher—and besides, his carriage trade customers were used to coming here.

Julie's father pulled the team to a stop. Without a word he lifted her down and escorted her to the door. Mr. Black looked up from his desk and grinned. “William! Julie! What a nice surprise. What has you out on this windy night?”

Julie's father took off his hat. “I have to deliver some charity groceries. Are you going to work late? Could Julie stay and read awhile?”

Mr. Black nodded. “Of course. I'm working on my inventory.”

“I'll be going, then,” Julie's father said, putting his hat back on. He turned to her. “Be quiet and let Mr. Black work.”

“I will,” Julie promised. She stood beside the open door as her father went out, his coattails flapping in the wind as he climbed into the wagon. He waved, then shook the reins, urging the horses forward. After the sound of their clopping hooves had faded, Julie could hear the shop signs creaking as they swung in the fierce wind.

The boardinghouse was quiet except for the striking of the clock. Nate lay on his bed, his arms folded beneath his head. If he didn't get going, he would be late meeting Ryan. He sat up, glancing at his door. Aunt Ruth had told him good night just after eight thirty. The clock in the hallway had just struck nine. She would be asleep by now.

“I won't be out more than an hour,” he whispered, promising himself that he wouldn't worry Aunt Ruth. “And I will go to school tomorrow no matter what.” And, he thought, sliding the window upward, he would make sure there was no dirt or soot on the sill for Aunt Ruth to find in the morning. The curtains billowed inward, shoved aside by the wind.

Nate stepped up onto the wide sill. He hesitated only a moment, balancing, one hand on the swaying branch of the maple tree that grew outside his window. A few seconds later he was on the ground, the wind molding his shirt against his body. He ran, light-footed, until he was well away from the boardinghouse. Then he dropped back to a striding walk as he crossed Canal Street. Walking fast against the wind, he could see Ryan standing beside the gas lamp on the corner.

“It's about time,” Ryan called in a hoarse whisper as Nate got close. “I was about to give up on you.”

“I have to wait until I'm sure my aunt's asleep. I've told you that.”

Ryan shrugged, nodding. “This wind is pretty strong.”

Nate turned so that his hair blew back from his face. “Mr. Oliver said the fire could get started up again in a gale like this.”

“You want to go down and get a look at it?”

Nate shook his head. “There's nothing down there but a bunch of black boards and piles of junk and ash. You saw it.”

Ignoring Nate, Ryan began to walk down the center of Clinton Street. Nate waited a few seconds,
then started after him. “All right, we'll go look. But I have to be home in an hour.”

Ryan didn't answer, but he hurried. Nate kept up, enjoying the warm gusts that buffeted them. Overhead the stars were bright; the smoky haze was being blown out over Lake Michigan. They walked for a time in silence, hunched against the constant wind.

As they crossed Adams Street, entering the fire-blackened ruins, Nate remembered what Mr. Oliver had said about the people watching the fire—and it made him feel guilty. Mr. Oliver had been right. Usually, the crowds acted like it was a show, a circus meant to entertain them.

Nate looked at the collapsed viaduct, wondering for the first time how long it would take to fix it, how long it would be before anyone could live on these streets again. He raised his eyes, looking into the darkness across the river. Mr. Oliver had said Conley's Patch hadn't burned. Aunt Ruth would rejoice if it ever did. The saloons and gambling dens stood close beside the brothels and flophouses. Nate never walked through Conley's Patch alone.

They walked on, Ryan leading the way. Nate
shoved his hands into his pockets, his stomach tight and uneasy. Looking at the fire wreckage was worse now than it had been this morning. In the murky darkness, everything looked eerie. Here and there a timber stood canted to one side, swinging at an angle in the wind. They crossed Harrison Street, passing the edge of the burn, stepping back up onto the undamaged plank boardwalk.