There had been a long, dry hot spell. Late corn had withered and scorched up before ripening. Winter wheat was parched. Our pretty flower garden was watered assiduously, and the lawn, but the blossoms drooped, the grass turned brown. What sweltering days they were those September days, with the glowing, pitiless sun that set in a bed of flames that scorched up the kindly dews. It did not seem as if there was any moisture left in the lake. What would we have done without our splendid water-works!
Then October came in. We had talked of a journey up in Michigan for a little relief, but fortunately we had not gone.
There came up a strong southwest breeze and we took courage, although there was not a cloud in the sky. "But it must rain presently," we all said.
Sitting there on the porch, which was quite a high one, we saw the spires of flame shooting up skyward. It was so far away that we only looked and commented. Whether it was the unfortunate kick of Mrs. O'Leary's cow that sent the lighted lamp over in the hay, as is the commonly received version, or some other fatal incident, the fire broke out in a crowded portion of the city, where old rookeries abounded, always a menace. One almost felt it would safeguard the city to have them burn down, and burn they did. Whether any more vigorous work or alarm could have prevented the spread no one could decide afterward.
But by midnight the conflagration was overwhelming. Fire and wind swept in wild fury. It came northward in two grand, separate columns, tossing its firebrands to the right and the left, and then it made a mighty sweep over the river. Was there ever anything like it for sublimity and terror? The brute creation was crazed. Horses ran wildly about, roared and kicked, the air was filled with cries and screams of maddened people. On and on it flew, whirling great masses of flame from one point to another. Grand hotels, warehouses, stored full of valuables, the Chamber of Commerce, the banks, the great shopping palace of Fields, Leiter & Co.—it was no respecter of persons.
We had sent the two smaller children to bed tired out, but we could not go, fascinated with terror. I knew a great part of my investments were swallowed up—that Homer would lose much of the work of his life. This way and that it dashed. Stone and marble crumbled and went down. There had been the burning Rome and Alexander's orgie at Persepolis—were they to be compared to this?
We had thought ourselves safe, but the demon flew on and on. Nothing could withstand him. We began to pick up our valuables and load whatever wagons we had and send them out toward Lincoln Park. The streets were full of crying, shrieking, homeless people. And when it came nearer, nearer, we, too, joined the throng, but we were all safe together and made our way out where the air was not quite so dense with smoke, and at length dropped on the brown, shrivelled grass, and clasped our arms about each other.
It has been written over many times, the loss and ruin, the indomitable energy of the people, the suffering and the courage, the heartiness with which every one set about mending his broken fortunes and helping his neighbors. Safes and money had perished. But the grand spontaneous outburst of sympathy, the proffers of help from other cities was cheering in the extreme. With one voice they said, and we said, Chicago must be rebuilt in a better and more enduring shape. It is true that many solid structures had gone with the flimsy ones.
There was no more Old Chicago. And the Little Girl had come to middle life, but her eyes had the old light, her lips were soft and sweet as she kissed me that morning in the midst of our desolation.
"We have each other," she said, "and our children and father and mother."