THE CHICAGO HISTORY JOURNAL

A Chicago New Year's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 08:16:42 PST

The John T. McCutcheon cartoon shown above (click on for a larger image) appeared in the Chicago Tribune on January 1, 1909.

In Chicago, one hundred four years ago, New Year's Day...

was a day much like any other day.

The first Chicago baby of the year was born at 12:01 am to 20-year old Mary Vietka of 248 West Chicago Avenue. Unfortunately, Mrs. Vietka didn't make it to the county hospital and the little girl was born in the police ambulance.

Poor Mrs. Annie Raffty didn't start out the year very well. Her remains were found in the furnace of an apartment building at 5412 Cornell Avenue. It seems her husband had taken exception to her flirtation with a porter on the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy railroad and expressed his displeasure by strangling her, beating her and then shoving her body in the furnace to cover the crime.

It was President Theodore Roosevelt's last New Years in the White House and he was eagerly looking forward to his upcoming African safari. President-elect William Howard Taft expressed his "most earnest wish...for the preservation of the peace of the world and for the continuance of friendly relations which this nation enjoys with all other nations of the earth."

The Powers' Theater was having a Happy New Year Matinee. William H. Crane was starring in "Father and the Boys," written by George Ade. Continuous vaudeville was offered at the Haymarket and at 2:15 in the afternoon Litt and Dingwall's Great Melodrama, "In Old Kentucky" would be presented at the McVicker's. Harry Lauder was playing his bagpipes at Orchestra Hall.

Sports fans were happy that New Years. The Cubs were two-time world Champions and White Sox owner Charles Comiskey was "negotiating" with some south side property owners over land for his new ball park - Comiskey Park would open in 1910. One of the most popular tunes of 1908 was "Take Me Out To the Ball Game."

A devastating earthquake had struck Messina, Italy on December 28th and killed hundreds of thousands of people. Chicago remembered how the world had responded to its suffering from the Great Fire in 1871. Representatives of the Red Cross were stationed at the entrances of many hotels and restaurants with small boxes in hand and requesting donations for the unfortunate Italians.

Chicago had spent $1,000,000 to usher in the New Year. It was an enthusiastic celebration all over town:

New Year's Day, however, is a time for looking ahead and in 1909, like no other year before, the city would be "Looking Forward," as the Chicago Tribune trumpeted:

The city really is looking forward to an era of tremendous accomplishment, and what is more important, it is moving forward with a firmness and definiteness of direction which is the result of its wise consideration of the past and its thorough study of conditions. It has awakened with the whole nation to the necessity for conservation and coherent development of resources and it is realizing now as never before the wisdom and economy of studying the needs of the city as a whole and coordinating all civic effort so that unity and harmony shall be more and more approximated as the community grows. The city beautiful plans of the Commercial club, the harbor commission's exhaustive deliberations, the work preliminary to subway development, the deep waterway project, unification of interurban transportation facilities, commercial, ethical, social, aesthetic, which are being developed and furthered with great zeal and practical effectiveness, express the vitality of the civic feeling of our time.

Chicago is indeed leaving her nonage. The headlong and often heedless energy of the past is giving place to a more constant force which will produce better and more lasting results. The generous enthusiasms of the past, which we must honor, are revived and find a wider scope, a firmer footing. Best of all is the fact that the community is beginning to realize itself in a new sense of unity, without which Chicago would never be really a city, a great social entity, of which its members might say with a Roman pride,

"I am a citizen of Chicago."

An Evening at Hull House

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 08:53:26 PDT

Jane Addams
1860-1935

A belated Happy Birthday, Miss Addams (September 6, 1860)!

"Life in the Settlement discovers above all what has been called 'the extraordinary pliability of human nature,' and it seems impossible to set any bounds to the moral capabilities which might unfold under ideal civic and educational conditions. But in order to obtain these conditions, the Settlement recognizes the need of coöperation, both with the radical and the conservative, and from the very nature of the case the Settlement cannot limit its friends to any one political party or economic school.

"The Settlement casts side none of those things which cultivated men have come to consider reasonable and goodly, but it insists that those belong as well to that great body of people who, because of toilsome and underpaid labor, are unable to procure them for themselves. Added to this is a profound conviction that the common stock of intellectual enjoyment should not be difficult of access because of the economic position of him who would approach it, that those 'best results of civilization' upon which depend the finer and freer aspects of living must be incorporated into our common life and have free mobility through all elements of society if we would have our democracy endure.

"The educational activities of a Settlement, as well its philanthropic, civic, and social undertakings, are but differing manifestations of the attempt to socialize democracy, as is the very existence of the Settlement itself."

From: Twenty Years at Hull-House by Jane Addams

Some evening clubs and classes held at Hull House — January 1895

Source: http://www.galegroup.com/free_resources/whm/bio/addams_j.htm

Arithmetic

Beginning Latin

Chemistry

Cloak Makers' Union (women)

Club Lectures

Dancing Class

English and Letter Writing

Geometry

Gymnastics (men)

Gymnastics (women)

Italian Class

Italian Reception

Italo-American Club

Jolly Boys' Club

Mandolin Club

Parliamentary Law

Physics

Singing

Social Science Club

Young Citizens

Recommended Links: Jane Addams and Hull House

The Day Book: A Newspaper for the Workingman

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 06:03:08 PDT

February 21, 1912

"Conceived by newspaper mogul Edward Willis Scripps as an experiment in advertisement-free newspaper publishing, the Chicago Day Book was published for a working-class readership Monday through Saturday from September 28, 1911 to July 6, 1917. Scripps chose Chicago, with its large working-class population, as the venue for the first of what he hoped would become a chain of ad-free newspapers. Free from commercial influence, the Day Book would report on issues of concern to what Scripps called the “95 percent” of the population. Priced at one cent, like the other Chicago dailies of the period, the Day Book was published in a small tabloid format of nine by six inches, with 32 pages per issue. The small format was one of many strategies Scripps used to hold down publishing costs, along with bulk purchase of newsprint for all of his newspapers and the use of features created by Scripps’s Newspaper Enterprise Association.

"Edited by former editor of the Toledo News-Bee, Negley D. Cochran, the Day Book championed the interests of workers, with extensive coverage of working conditions, wages, union organizing, and labor unrest. Circulation received a boost during the Chicago newspaper strike of 1912, when pressmen were locked out at several major Chicago dailies, but fell again when the strike ended in November 1912. The Day Book’s most celebrated reporter was Carl Sandburg, who wrote for the paper from early 1913 until its cessation in the summer of 1917. Although for the most part Cochran eschewed the use of bylines in the Day Book, more than 135 articles have been attributed to Sandburg, and this body of work vividly reflects his views on the social and political issues of the day.

"On December 20, 1913, the Day Book announced that it was absorbing the Chicago Daily Press, which was the other explicitly pro-labor Chicago daily. (The Daily Press was founded by the Clover Leaf Newspaper chain in August, 1912; no copies of the paper, which was published for less than two years, are known to have survived.) However, other than providing subscribers of the Press with the December 22 issue of the Day Book, the transaction was more symbolic than tangible. Cochran wrote in the December 20 issue that “this involves no change in the policy, purpose or program of The Day Book. It will go on just the same as it did before the change, without the slightest alteration in the policy I outlined when I issued the first copy of The Day Book.” In the December 22 issue, he specified further that “in absorbing the good will of the Chicago Daily Press, The Day Book has assumed none of its obligations.” Neither the assets nor liabilities of the Press, nor its subscriber base, were acquired by the Day Book, and the printing plant of the Press was advertised for sale in the Chicago Daily Tribune.

"Circulation of the Day Book peaked at 22,839 in October 1916, and January 1917 was the only profitable month in the paper’s six-year run. Although the Day Book never achieved Scripps’s goal of 30,000 subscribers and 15 percent annual profit, scholars recognize its achievements in adopting both a new business model for newspaper publishing and a new style of advocacy journalism."

Provided by: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Source: Library of Congress, http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/

Image: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1912-02-21/ed-1/seq-1/

Recommended Reading:

Freedom from Advertising by E. W. Scripps

Selected Chicago Daily Newspapers (Encyclopedia of Chicago)

More History Bits From the Burbs

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Thu, 31 May 2012 10:55:53 PDT

By Ray Johnson

As a history geek, this has got to be one of the best kept secrets in the western burbs. As I have been on a crusade, as of late, finding bits of Chicago history in places other than Chicago I quite literally came across this gem by accident.

I am quite the fan of the stranger side of Chicago history, and one of my favorite topics (there are quite a few) is the Whitechapel Club. I plan a more comprehensive article on the Whitechapel club in the future but in a nutshell it was a club formed in 1888 of mainly authors and journalists from Chicago newspapers but also included lawyers, doctors, police officers, cartoonists, a U.S. Senator and more. The purpose of the club was mainly a social outlet for journalists and the like to have a few drinks and quite a bit of fun. They were known for some of their outrageous antics and pranks and also for the way in which the club, which was originally in the back room of Koster's saloon in "Newsboy's Alley", was decorated. There were the coffin shaped tables, drinking cups made from skulls and one wall that was shingled because “nobody had shingled a wall up to this point”. The club was very well known and dignitaries visiting the Columbian Exposition of 1893 always hoped to be invited to their meetings. (Invitation only). The club disbanded in 1895.

The Hotel LaSalle honored the Whitechapel Club by naming one of its lounges "The Whitechapel Pub" and the pub was roughly on the site where the original club used to meet. In 1945, the Chicago Historical Society placed a plaque on the outside of the hotel honoring the Whitechapel Club. On June 5, 1946 a fire destroyed the hotel and 61 persons lost their lives. I had always wondered what happened to that plaque.

Just about two years ago some friends of mine invited my wife and I out to the Wolf's Head Restaurant and Bar located at 6937 Joliet Road in Indian Head Park, IL. We had lived in the area for about 15 years but had never been there so we thought we would give it a shot. As I was walking through the front doors I looked to my left and there on the wall was a bronze plaque engraved with the words; "A.D. 1888, A few score feet west of this site was founded The Whitechapel Club sanctuary of newspapermen dedicated to the spirit of congeniality authenticated by Chicago Historical Society 1945"

I couldn’t believe it. I spoke with the owner of the establishment, Steve Bartmann, and asked him what he knew about the plaque. He mentioned that the prior owners purchased many of the antique items from auctions at hotels and restaurants.

The Wolf's Head Inn was new in 1976 and was owned by Rollin Massey who lived in Western Springs and had operated a deli for a number of years in that town before opening the Wolf's Head Inn. The booths in the restaurant were obtained when the famous Pump Room in the Ambassador East Hotel (Now the Chicago Public Hotel) was auctioning them off during a mid 1970's renovation project. Massey couldn't afford the more famous No. 1 booth or even the No. 2 or No. 3 booth but once the auctioneer got past the celebrity booths he managed to pick up 30-40 booths for about $200.

I did also notice a wooden and metal bench with a plaque above it and it turns out it was an old bench from Navy Pier. The bench would be almost 100 years old now and is a rarity because the Navy Pier benches were transported in 1942 to the Gary Forges so that the metal could be melted down and utilized in the war effort. In 1983 a trio of divers, Bob Berkowicz, Jim Mulqueeny and Bill Bokina salvaged a few of these benches from Lake Michigan just off of Navy Pier. Apparently they had fallen off of the boat before or during transport. They donated one of those benches to the Wolf's Head Inn on January 21, 1998.

Not of significance to Chicago but there is also a pewter figurehead of Queen Victoria which, according to the plaque affixed to it, was moved to the Wolf’s Head Inn from an ancient London tavern where it hung from 1837 to 1901. According to legend if you gave the “Ole Queen” a rub she would grant you good luck.

The beautiful entrance doors were taken from a New England church built in the 1800s and the bar is from the early 1900s. According to the Wolf’s Head website the restaurant is on the property that was once part of the Blackhawk Tribe’s hunting trail and the area was known for large packs of wolves that roamed the area, hence the name “Wolf Road”.

Unfortunately, Bartmann did not have the stories behind all of the many artifacts that are displayed on the walls but if you are into solving history’s mysteries like I am, then it is a veritable treasure hunt! I have to say that the food and drink were great as well and I would definitely recommend the prime rib sandwich.

References:

Fantl, Bob, “Brite Spots”, Suburban Life, 27 November 1976

Buursma, Bruce, “For the suburban lifestyle, it’s pin-high to perfection”, Chicago Tribune, 01, December 1990

Hevrdejs, Judy and Conkin, Mike, “Like Titanic, Diver’s Find has New Life”, Chicago Tribune, 22 February

1998

http://www.indianheadpark-il.gov/history.htm

http://www.wolfsheadrestaurant.com/

All photos credited to author.

Ray Johnson is a former criminal investigator with the West Chicago Police Department and is a life-long fan of Chicago history, legends and folklore. He currently runs a genealogical and historic research business at http://www.historycop.com and has lectured and taught classes on conducting historical research. He is currently the Chicago Area Representative for the Association of Professional Genealogists. His passion for the legends, folklore and haunts of the Windy City prompted him to write a book on the subject which was published in July 2011 by Schiffer Publishing Limited and is entitled, “Chicago’s Haunt Detective”. He maintains a web presence for the ghostly side of Chicago history at http://www.hauntdetective.com and can also be reached on

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HauntDetective

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/HauntDetective

Email: hauntdetective@gmail.com

Was He Really That Bad?: Another Look at "Big Bill"

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 04:41:22 PDT

By Gary Krist

Republican Mayor
"Big Bill" Thompson
(Mario Gomes Collection)

If you read much Chicago history, you probably know all about Mayor William Hale Thompson. “Big Bill the Builder,” as he liked to call himself, is considered just about the best joke in the annals of the Second City. He was the brash, bellowing cowboy-mayor of the Roaring Twenties—the one who skimmed from every till, turned a blind eye to every crime, and all but bestowed the keys to the city upon Al Capone and his bootlegging friends. Historians have had a lot of fun recounting the big man’s exploits. They cite his famous debate against two caged rats (representing his opponents in an election race), his ill-fated “scientific expedition” to find a South Seas tree-climbing fish (the boat didn’t get farther than New Orleans), and his well-publicized threats to punch the King of England in the snoot. Big Bill’s reputation as a venal and inept buffoon was virtually certified in 1993, when a panel of historians awarded him first place on their list of the worst mayors in American history (see also The American Mayor by Melvin G. Holli).

As always, however, history is a little more complex than the popular lore would have it. Let’s not forget, after all, that Thompson was reelected not just once, but twice; his 12 years in City Hall made him one of the two longest-serving mayors in the city’s history up to that point. And these electoral wins happened in the Chicago of the 1910s and 20s, long before the rise of an omnipotent political machine that could, if necessary, get even one of those caged rats elected. Thompson’s Republican organization was only one of several factions in each party at the time. So while the usual back-room horse-trading definitely had a role in Thompson’s election success, it’s also undeniable that many Chicago voters saw something in him that was worth voting for.

And in fact—as I hope my book City of Scoundrels shows—Big Bill was not without his virtues. Clearly, the man was no Fiorello La Guardia, but nor was he the “blubbering jungle hippopotamus” that his enemies liked to lampoon. Particularly in his first two terms, he sometimes found it within himself to lead effectively, orchestrating the conflicting energies of a hugely divided city to accomplish some good.

Even some of his critics agree that he started out strong. Faced with a streetcar strike shortly after his first election, Thompson solved the problem handily—by locking representatives of both sides into his City Hall office. "I'm not going to let them leave," the Mayor told reporters, "until they make peace." Negotiations went on through the night, interrupted only when Big Bill took everyone into his lavatory to race his prize model sailboat in the bathtub. And when the doors opened at dawn, the strike was settled.

Later that summer, he had a chance to show another kind of leadership. On a bright Saturday morning in July, the steamship Eastland capsized at its mooring on the Chicago River, drowning 811 people who were about to leave on a pleasure cruise. Thompson was in California at the time, but he returned immediately by special train to coordinate the relief efforts. He established a charitable fund for victims and led a funeral procession through the Little Village neighborhood, home of many who had died. "I am here to emphasize the grief and indignation of this great city," the Mayor told mourners. Chicago appreciated the gesture. Thousands began wearing wide-brimmed Stetsons on the streets—"Big Bill hats" they called them.

Of course, Thompson’s well-known opposition to American involvement in the Great War turned out to be a clear misreading of popular sentiment, and it was this that ultimately led to much of the subsequent ridicule. When Marshal Joffre, hero of the Marne, came to the U.S. on a nationwide tour, Thompson did not rush to invite him to the city. "Chicago is the sixth largest German city in the world," he pointed out (quite accurately). “Some of our people might not be so wildly enthusiastic about it." Although the invitation was ultimately issued, Thompson continued to drag his feet on American involvement in the hostilities. "This war," he kept insisting, "is a needless sacrifice of the best blood of the nation on foreign battlefields."

But is this position so unreasonable, given that the country had just reelected its President on the slogan “He kept us out of war”? There were also many venerable and respected public figures who shared the Mayor’s low opinion of the conflict, including Chicago’s own Jane Addams. Nonetheless, Thompson was excoriated for his pacifism in newspaper columns, speeches, and sermons—not just in Chicago, but all around the nation. The mayor was variously maligned as "a disgrace to the city," "a low-down double-crosser," and (the name that would stick far longer than any other) "Kaiser Bill." One clergyman in Baltimore even argued that the Mayor of Chicago was a traitor and ought to be shot. Such is the reward of pacifism in a time of rampant war hysteria.

Poster applauding Thompson's
laissez faire administration.
(Mario Gomes Collection)

And what of his much-bruited building accomplishments? Admittedly, Thompson’s civic improvement projects were always deeply compromised by bribery, corruption, and high-handed patronage, but he did manage to muster the money and collective will to get them done, often in times of recession and despite an antiquated state constitution that severely limited the city’s ability to raise money through bonds and taxation. As one journalist of the time admitted, “Thompsonism does build roads and bridges…even if they cost more than they should.” The result was many of the civic monuments—Soldier Field, Navy Pier, the Michigan Avenue Bridge, the Magnificent Mile—that today make Chicago such an urban showplace.

But it was in his attention to the concerns of Chicago’s African Americans that Thompson best distinguished himself. At a time when alleged progressives were falling pitifully short in their support of equal rights, Thompson’s championing of the city’s so-called Black Belt—growing explosively as a result of the Great Migration from the South—showed considerable political courage. Granted, this courtship was in part self-serving (Thompson recognized before anyone else the importance of black votes to winning elections), and often his support amounted to little more than fine words. But he did deliver on many of his campaign promises to the community. Aside from helping to sweep into office the first African American alderman in the city's history (Oscar DePriest), he also appointed blacks to prominent posts in his administration. By the end of his first term, Thompson had also doubled the number of blacks on the police force.

While African Americans cheered these efforts, many whites rabidly disapproved. Writers in the daily press began referring to City Hall as "Uncle Tom’s Cabin" and questioned the wisdom of some of Thompson's appointments. But Big Bill stood firm on all but one of his choices. "The persons appointed were qualified for their positions," he argued. "In the name of humanity it is my duty to do what I can to elevate rather than degrade any class of American citizens." This from the man whose enemies called him "a blubbering jungle hippopotamus."

It would be foolish, of course, to minimize the corruption and incompetence of the Thompson administrations. His critics were right about many things, and in his third term, Thompson did all but implode, even suffering a nervous breakdown that left City Hall virtually rudderless for months. Under his uncertain leadership, Chicago in the 1920s became the gangster city of legend, succumbing to criminal chaos while the mayor himself engaged in seemingly quixotic battles against “British propaganda” in the public schools. But even here, it’s worth noting that William Dever, the impeccably honest mayor who served between Thompson’s second and third terms, made a complete hash of his time in office, enforcing Prohibition with such diligence that the city’s bootleggers were soon engaged in territorial battles that lifted the crime rate to new heights. And while it’s easy to make fun of Big Bill’s bizarre tirades against the King of England and war profiteers, it’s important to remember that there was method to much of this madness. When railing against King George or the “sinister interests,” Thompson was by proxy railing against bosses, railroad barons, and all other representatives of power and privilege—a message that was appreciated by everyone from the city’s Irish and African American working class to its disconsolate middle-class commuters.

Chicago American, April 5, 1927
"Big Bill's" second term as mayor.
(Mario Gomes Collection)

So maybe it’s time to give Big Bill a break. Much of Thompson’s cartoon image today, after all, is a tendentious exaggeration perpetrated by his political enemies—the academics, newspaper publishers, and educated white reformers who ended up writing the history of the era. They always saw Thompson as a threat to their concept of “good government,” which often seemed to align suspiciously with the interests of wealth and property. So was Big Bill really the worst mayor in American history? To some people, certainly. But there were an awful lot of Chicago voters who thought that a corrupt buffoon who actually got things done was at least preferable to the available alternatives.

* * * * * * * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Before turning to narrative nonfiction with The White Cascade and City of Scoundrels, Gary Krist wrote three novels--Bad Chemistry, Chaos Theory, and Extravagance--and two short-story collections. He has been a regular book reviewer for The New York Times Book Review, Salon, and The Washington Post Book World. His satirical op-eds have appeared in The New York Times and Newsday, and his stories, articles, and travel pieces have been featured in National Geographic Traveler, The Wall Street Journal, GQ, Playboy, The New Republic, Esquire, and on National Public Radio's "Selected Shorts."

Recommended Reading:

"How Big Bill Thompson Won Control of Chicago" by George Schottenhamel

"Mrs. William Hale Thompson, Mayor's Wife, Robbed at Gunpoint" (The Chicago Crime Scenes Project)

William Hale Thompson (Chicago Public Library)

Photo Credit:

Mario Gomes Collection; My Al Capone Museum

Chicagoans, Dr. Blackmarr and the R.M.S. Titanic

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 07:06:00 PDT

Today marks the anniversary of the sinking of the luxury liner R.M.S. Titanic on April 14, 1912.(More accurately, Titanic struck the iceberg on April 14th, but sank on April 15th.) A List of Chicagoans on Board the Titanic, plus as much biographical that is known, is provided at Genealogy Trails for Cook County.

There is also the story from Encyclopedia Titanica about Miss Ann Elizabeth Isham and the legend that she may have died trying to save her dog.

But, there is one Chicagoan who played a significant role in recording the events surrounding the sinking: Dr. Frank Blackmarr . At the time, Dr. Blackmarr was a passenger on the Carpathia, the ship that received the survivors, and he published the following report in the Chicago Daily Tribune on April 20, 1912. (The following is from the Encyclopedia Titanica)

Dr. Frank Blackmarr Tells Scenes When Survivors Reached Carpathia

WOMEN AT BOAT OARS

Spot Where the Titanic Went Down Covered with All Sorts of Debris

BY DR. FRANK BLACKMARR OF CHICAGO (A passenger of the Carpathia) New York, April 19 - [Special] On Monday morning at 1:15 the Carpathia's wireless operator, Harold Thomas Cottam, picked up a distress signal from the steamship Titanic. It was the habit of this boy before retiring for the night to pick up the nearest ship and say "Good Night." Having received the distress signal he at once notified the officers of the ship. When we arrived at the spot the Titanic had sunk. The sea was covered with wreckage of all kinds, mahogany splinters, white enameled wood, silk covered couches, pillows, and mattresses. We all saw a woman's hat floating in the debris. One fur coat floated by, suspended on a piece of wood.

From near at hand and from a distance, too, lifeboats were coming towards us, women occupying rowing seats in many of them, with a man at the tiller. Not a sound escaped their lips; no hysteria was in evidence. Their faces were pinched with cold. The task of raising them from the lifeboats to the ship's deck was difficult. The women with their blistered hands found it hard to climb any ladders. The majority of them were lifted in by a swing which consisted of a board with a rope from each side, connecting with a single large cable.

Ready to Aid Survivors

Officers, stewards, and stewardesses had been on duty for hours preparing to receive them. These same officers and crew after that had no opportunity to lie down for a rest until their journey was over.

Many of the women that came in the boats shuddled together in the seats witha dead sailor lying in the bottom of the boat.

When asked why it was there were so few men saved - an estimate of one in five - a woman passenger who had lost her husband said she begged him to get into he boat with her, but that he refused out of sympathy for the poor fellows who were left.

Astor Calmly Waited Death

Col. Astor, it is said, after placing his wife in a boat, as did some of the other rich men, returned to the middle of the deck of the Titanic, folded his arms, and went down with the ship. The conduct of these rich men goes to prove they were heroes.

The only panic at the beginning, as I understand it, was in the steerage, where there were many persons who lacked self-control. There was no shooting, as I learn, except that a steerage passenger told me he saw an officer trying to control the maddened rush by shooting two persons. The same officer shot himself a minute later.

Climbed Ledge to Safety

The stairway of the Titanic was so crowded with steerage passengers that it was utterly impossible for some to gain the upper deck. One man told me he climbed along the ledge of the boat until he reached the deck where he loosened a collapsible boat. A moment later the lifeboat was filled on its edges with women, children, and men. It began to sink with the load, and the women and children at the edge gradually slipped off, into the ocean.

The saddest moment of all, after the boat loads had been landed on the deck, was to see the poor widows and sons and daughters whose family relations had been broken, standing at the rail, looking into the distance with hands outstretched trying in hope to see their loved ones. There were numerous sick persons on board, but the illness was not so such physical as it was mental agony.

Dr. Blackmarr also wrote an article titled "The Titanic" and is acknowledged as one of the first people to provide details of the tragedy to the press. While on the Carpathia, Dr. Blackmarr approached many of the survivors for their account of the sinking including that of first class passenger Dr. Washington Dodge. It is a first-hand account written just days after Titanic went down and was included in Blackmarr's annotated scrapbook of the event. According to Encyclopedia Titanica:

Blackmarr died in the 1940s. The unique collection of documents and photographs passing, in the early 1960s, to a Chicago family. It was found in an attic in March 1998 and auctioned by Dunnings Auction House, Elgin, Illinois for $50,000 the same year. James T. Harper, a member of the Titanic Historical Society, was given access to the collection in April 1998 and transcribed the documents before they were sold.

So, where is Blackmarr's scrapbook now? Anyone know, or is this a job for the Museum of Missing History?

McCutcheon and the Menagerie

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 10 Apr 2012 04:38:36 PDT

On June 30, 1934 Chicago's world famous Chicago Zoological park at Brookfield was dedicated. It was an "invitation only" affair of over 2,000 guests, but the doors would officially open to the public the following day, July 1, 1934. By September, over 1 million people had visited the park.

Presiding over the dedication of Brookfield Zoo and the zoo's governing body, the Chicago Zoological Society, was Chicago Tribune cartoonist, John T. McCutcheon, the organization's first president. McCutcheon was elected to the position in 1921. McCutcheon recalls in his autobiography that he was notified of his nomination via a letter from Art Institute president Charles L. Hutchinson. "This society," writes McCutcheon, stemmed from a typical American combination of civic devotion, philanthropy, high taxes and dull times." When it became necessary to select a president, "somebody remembered my book on Africa." (see The Chicago History Online Library)

The beginning of the park is also a story. According to Doug Deuchler, co-author of Brookfield Zoo and the Chicago Zoological Society:

One aspect of the "founding" of the zoo is that the original tract of land was an abortive suburban "subdivision" that just didn't take off during the post WWI recession. So its owner, Edith Rockefeller McCormick, gave the land to start a zoo. She actually was being magnanimous, in her way, but she also owed a bundle of back taxes and this act would clean her slate. She was the richest woman in America during the '20s. She wanted a "barless" zoo like she'd seen in Germany---moats around the animals, etc. She, alas, died in '32--two years before the zoo was completed. Most of the core buildings were completed by 1928-1929 but the Crash and subsequent hard times put the zoo at a standstill until 1934. The board never spent a penny they didn't have in hand. So that also held things up. This financial practice would continue down through the years. Moneys were never borrowed.

McCutcheon was delighted with his election and wrote, "Here seemed a chance to do something for the city which had done so much for me.”And, give back he did. "I was thrown into frequent association with Chicago’s most public-spirited citizens, and these relationships, I now realize, have been among the most prized perquisites of my position,” he wrote. It didn't hurt that he was also friends with President Theodore Roosevelt.

While McCutcheon left the daily operations of the zoo to its directors, those connections and his natural charm were able to pull the zoo through some tough times. On governing, McCutcheon wrote: "My one valuable quality as president, as I see it, was that I did not try to act like one all the time."

John McCutcheon served as president for 27 years before relinquishing the position to his brother-in-law, Clay Judson, in 1948.

Recommended reading:

Brookfield Zoo and the Chicago Zoological Society (Images of America)by Douglas Deuchler and Carla W. Owens (filled with archive photos!)

Drawn From Memory: The Autobiography of John T. McCutcheon (out of print but many reasonably priced used copies available)

The Chicago Zoological Society website

Brookfield Zoo (Wikipedia)

Jungles of Eden: The Design of American Zoos (excerpt from Environmentalism in Landscape Architecture)

Photo Credits:
Brookfield Zoo poster from trialsanderrors on Flickr: Poster by Carken for the Illinois Federal Art Project, Works Progress Administration (WPA), 1936
McCutcheon photo: Google Images
McCutcheon cartoon: Chicago Tribune, June 13, 1935

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 07:46:18 PDT

The German artist Hans Hofmann (1880-1966) once wrote, "The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak." Henry David Thoreau strongly advised "simplify, simplify!" And bringing the idea closer to home, Frank Lloyd Wright declared that, "the architect should strive continually to simplify." Architect? Hey, I'm building a website here! Work with me!

The point is that in order for The Chicago History Journal to continue I have to simplify. I am going to eliminate Chicago History Online and The Chicago History Online Library, including their respective "social media" pages. The information contained on those sites will not be lost, however. I plan to re-post on CHJ. New posts will simply appear on The CHJ itself. The constant changes "facing" us by the site who shall remain nameless (ya, the Yahweh of the Internet) is mind "blogging," at least for me. And now Blogger is changing their dashboard. Seriously, I can't keep up! By the time I finish screwing around with all the technical doodads, there is no time to read, research, or write. What fun is that? Something had to change. And, let's be honest. They ARE the weakest links in my chain of sites.

So, a few things will change, but we will be moving forward. I'll be returning to my sites next month, and to celebrate I will be giving away copies of Gary Krist's upcoming book City of Scoundrels: The 12 Days of Disaster That Gave Birth To Modern Chicago. I'll give you a hint. Think 1919. BIG year! Be sure to watch for details on the giveaway.

I guess that is about it...except that I want to thank everyone for staying with me through all this. My last surgery two weeks ago was a toughie, but I am starting to get my old energy level up and am getting ready to work. To those who sent me emails that have gone unanswered, please forgive me. I will respond.

Adapt, improvise, overcome. Always good advice. See you soon...

A Bit of Pre-Fire Chicago in the Burbs

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 06:23:34 PST

The Pre-Fire Cook County Courthouse and Chicago City Hall in Elmhurst, IL

Stereo Card of the Cook County Courthouse ruins after the October 1871 Fire,

Urns are just visible at the top of the building

By Ray Johnson

Only a piece of the building exists, but if you want to be able to touch a piece of pre-fire Chicago history you only have to travel to Wilder Park in the lovely near west suburb of Elmhurst. One of the decorative , stone, urn-like finials or capstones that adorned the top of the east and west wings of the combined Cook County Courthouse and Chicago City Hall now sits at the southwest corner of the park.

Pre-Fire history of the Cook County Courthouse and Chicago City Hall.

The first court house was erected in 1835 at the southwest corner of N. Clark and W. Randolph Streets and was only a single story with a basement. The second court house was built at the northwest corner of N. Clark and W. Washington Streets in 1848. The building was designed by famed architect John M. Van Osdel and was also only a single story. In 1853 the first combined Court House and City Hall was built on the same block and was also designed by Van Osdel. This building started out two stories high and a third story was added in 1858. The original cost of the two story building was $110,000 and the walls were faced with grey marble taken from the Lockport, New York quarries. Two additional wings (east and west sides) were added to the building after the civil war and the bell at the top of the court house is the one that sounded the alarm during the Great Fire until the building itself was consumed. The capstone that exists at Wilder Park was from one of the two wings.

Making its way from the ruins of the Great Chicago Fire to the quiet unincorporated area of Elmhurst, IL

Wilder Mansion or Seth Wadhams’ “White Birch” alongside Wilder Park

In 1869, just two years before the Chicago Fire, the small unincorporated village of “Cottage Hill” changed its name to Elmhurst. One year prior to that, an ice manufacturer by the name of Seth Wadhams moved into the area and bought a farm called “Burnham’s Lot”. He built a house on the farm and named it “White Birch”. In fact it was Wadhams and a gentleman by the name of Jedediah Lathrop along with several others that are credited with planting a large number of elm trees along Cottage Hill Road which is what gave Elmhurst its name. “White Birch” went through several owners, the last being T.E. Wilder (1855-1919) , a manufacturer of leather goods, who donated the north half of the estate to the city in 1920 with the stipulation that a public library be created. “White Birch” did serve as the public library of Elmhurst but is now called “The Wilder Mansion” and is owned by the Elmhurst Park District.

It was the original builder of “White Birch”, Seth Wadhams, who was the wealthy souvenir hunter who arranged for two of the capstones from the Cook County Courthouse to be removed from the post-fire ruins and brought to his estate.

One of those capstones now sits at the southwest corner of Wilder Park very near The Wilder Mansion or Seth Wadham’s “White Birch”. It is adorned with a simple marker that was placed there by the Elmhurst Bicentennial Commission and the Martha Ibbetson Chapter of the National Society of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It reads simply, “Elmhurst Landmark 1870, Urn-Adorned Cook County Court House before Chicago Fire of 1871”

Capstone with marker at Wilder Park, Elmhurst, IL

Sources:

Tallmadge, Thomas Eddy, Architecture in Old Chicago, Chicago: University of Chicago, 1941.

Elmhurst Historical Museum, Elmhurst: Origin of Names, Streets, Schools, Parks, and Landmarks, Elmhurst: Elmhurst Historical Museum, 1980.

Randall, Frank A., History of the Development of Building Construction in Chicago, Champaign, University of Illinois Press, 1999.

Photo Credits:

Ruins after the great fire of Oct. 1871, Chicago - Courthouse : Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA (Reproduction Number: LC-USZ62-57059)

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Email: hauntdetective@gmail.com

Next Article: Artifacts from Chicago history, including the Whitechapel Club and famed Pump Room, at an Indian Head Park Restaurant

Isaac Woolf and The Newsboys: A Thanksgiving Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 06:01:00 PST

Isaac Woolf knew how to celebrate Thanksgiving. For twenty-five years Woolf, president of Woolf's Clothing House ("the store with a horseshoe over the door and the Palmer House across the way")hosted a Thanksgiving "Newsboys' Dinner." In 1882, when Woolf began the yearly tradition, 100 "ragged and hungry little guests" were served. By 1905, the year before Woolf unexpectedly died at the age of 54, over 10,000 of Chicago's hungry poor were enjoying the feast.

Like just about everyone else in Chicago, Isaac Woolf came from somewhere else. He was born in London, England on January 3, 1853, but when Isaac was quite young, his father brought the family to America. They first settled in Lafayette, Indiana but it was difficult going and the family struggled. Isaac wanted to help so he landed his first job - as a newsboy. He had other jobs, but never forgot his studies. He was even able to eventually attend business college. There were several years in Cincinatti learning the clothing business before he came to Chicago where in 1880 Isaac, along with his brothers Edward, Benjamin and Harry - opened their own store on Madison Street. Ten years later the store on State Street and Monroe was launched.

But, Isaac Woolf never forgot his roots and the newsboys' dinner became his favorite philanthropic effort. It cost him about $5000 a year for the turkey and all the trimmings that went with it, but Woolf considered it money well spent. The Chicago Tribune described the November 27, 1895 event (click on for readable image):

There is no question that Isaac Woolf was a good man, but he was also a businessman. Every year the newsboys' Thanksgiving dinner was featured in his clothing ads:

On October 22, 1906, Isaac Woolf was found dead in his home at 3431 Michigan Avenue. He was buried in Rosehill Cemetery. Of the funeral service the Chicago Tribune noted that, "It is probable that newsboys will turn out in large numbers."

HAPPY THANKSGIVING from THE CHICAGO HISTORY JOURNAL!

Temporarily Out of Order

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 05:45:21 PST

What can I say? Life has just gotten in the way lately.

No, The Journal has not been abandoned. Facebook and Twitter posts are still appearing regularly, but there has obviously been a deafening silence on the other sites. Not to worry. I shall return! Having a bit of surgery in a couple weeks (just in time for Thanksgiving) and a bit more "maintenance" work after the first of the year. But, by March I'll be up and running (literally) and better than ever - both me AND The Chicago History Journal. I have put too much time and love into this project to give it up. See the picture above? That's my library. It used to be the living room and there are five more bookshelves that you can't see. Many of those shelves are filled with books on Chicago history. Yep, I have some serious bucks invested in this project! No way will I give it up!

For the next few months I will do what I can to update some of the pages, but it won't be easy. As always, guest posts will be welcome, and I will make a herculean effort to publish them in a timely manner. So, if you have an idea or an article that you would like to see included on these pages, now is the time. I would greatly appreciate the help.

In the meantime, I hope you will stay with me. The library may be temporarily closed, so to speak, but I'm not going anywhere. At least until next year - when I can once again emerge from the Van Buren Street South Shore station and happily declare, "Hello, Gorgeous! I'm Baaaack!""

How a Chicago Grain Warehouse Made Constitutional law

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 00:40:34 PDT

Painting, "The First Grain Elevator
in Chicago, 1838" by Lawrence C. Earle

By Joe Mathewson

From the earliest interpretations of the U.S. Constitution by legendary Chief Justice John Marshall, an important and continuing legal dispute has been between state and federal regulation of business. Article I empowers Congress “to regulate commerce with foreign nations and among the several States,” a definition stretched over the years to cover businesses with only a modest connection to interstate commerce, but the states have a legitimate role, too, notably in protecting public health and safety. Where to draw the line?

For instance, Congress and the Supreme Court have interpreted “interstate commerce” to validate such widely disparate federal legislation as farm planting limits in the Depression and the public accommodations non-discrimination requirements of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. At the same time the Court has upheld state business laws, for instance, in the formative years of the nineteenth century, a New York insolvency statute, Philadelphia’s regulation of ship pilots, and New England states’ restrictions on alcoholic beverages imported from other states.

Two other notable Supreme Court nineteenth-century business cases concerned huge Chicago grain warehouses, called elevators because they moved grain up and down. One dispute concerned a state license requirement and price-fixing regulations for grain warehouses. The Supreme Court’s influential ruling in this dispute would be cited in future cases stretching over a century. The other Chicago case was a rare curiosity at the Supreme Court: at issue was the puncture of a warehouse on the Chicago River, and the resulting loss of grain valued at $394.38 into the water, by the errant boom of a schooner being towed, inexpertly, by a tug boat.

Loading the great whaleback ship at the famous grain elevators, Chicago, U.S.A. (1895)
NYPL Digital Gallery ID G90F176_011F

In the first case the warehouse owners, who had been fined $100 for their refusal to obtain the state license and for charging more than the prescribed rates, retained one of Chicago’s leading lawyers, William C. Goudy.

Goudy was prominent and respected in civic affairs and politics as well as in the law. He was a contemporary of Melville Fuller, who later became chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court (1888-1910). Goudy sometimes collaborated with Fuller, sometimes opposed him.

Notably, Goudy was a very early advocate of freedom of the press, more than a half century before that First Amendment guarantee was actually enforced by the Supreme Court. He defended the editor of the Chicago Times against both libel and criminal contempt of court charges. A leader of the Democratic Party, Goudy served as the Democratic national committeeman from Illinois and was a finalist in the legislature’s election of a United States senator in 1877, the same year that the warehouse dispute, called Munn v. Illinois, [one of The Granger Cases] was decided by the Supreme Court.

Goudy argued that, under the Constitution, only Congress could regulate interstate commerce, which was clearly involved here because, as the Court acknowledged, Chicago was “the greatest grain market in the world,” shipping Midwest produce from fourteen warehouses to many eastern states and even directly to Europe. He also contended that, because the owners had built their warehouse and operated it before the Illinois licensing and price-control law was enacted, it violated the Fourteenth Amendment’s standard that a state may not deprive a person of his property without due process of law.

However, while admitting that it found no precedent “for a statute precisely like this,” the Court ruled against Goudy. Chief Justice Morrison R. Waite, noting “the vast importance of the questions involved,” declared that neither the commerce clause nor the Fourteenth Amendment prohibited such state regulation of private property functioning as a public business, and therefore “the statute in question is not repugnant to the Constitution of the United States.” Two justices dissented forcefully, terming the statute “an invasion of private rights.”

It followed, then, that the case of the schooner’s damage to another Chicago grain warehouse produced a similar result: the operator of the tugboat was not shielded by the commerce clause from liability under Illinois law. In its opinion, rendered in 1886, the Supreme Court cited Munn v. Illinois as a precedent. So did dozens of subsequent Supreme Court interpretations of the commerce clause, most recently in 1987. A long tail, indeed.

Mercifully, the Chicago Tribune, in reporting the Munn decision, neglected to mention that the losing lawyer was none other than the highly-esteemed William C. Goudy.

Joe Mathewson, a former Supreme Court reporter for The Wall Street Journal, teaches journalism at Northwestern University’s Medill School and is the author of The Supreme Court and the Press: The Indispensable Conflict (www.supremecourtandthepress.com), published by the Northwestern University Press in its Visions of the American Press series edited by David Abrahamson.

"The Society of the Spectacle: How Things Are Remembered" (American Colossus: The Grain Elevator)

"1877: The Great Strike" (Illinois During the Gilded Age)

Billy Caldwell: An Updated History, Part 3 (The Reserve and Death)

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 04:20:29 PDT

By Peter T. Gayford

In 1833, Billy Caldwell was involved in the creation of Chicago’s first Catholic church. This church's name at the time of its creation was Saint Mary of the Assumption, and it was situated on what is now the south side of Lake Street, west of State Street. (85)

During that same year, Billy Caldwell began to sell off his rewarded (Prairie du Chien treaty) 1600 acres of reserve land located on the Chicago River. This decision was presumably the result of the economic decline of the region’s fur trade industry, while the advent of its landboom. This tract of land encompassed a wide open prairie on the west side and a deep forest of timber on the east, which was the land's only true value. (86) To accomplish this, Caldwell enlisted the help of a man named Arthur Bronson (1800-1844, see bio on Early Chicago site). Mr. Bronson was a capitalist, lawyer, real estate speculator, and financier from the state of New York. (87)

(Left) A. H. Evan’s 1836 survey of Caldwell’s reserve.

(Right) A map with the real estate transactions
of the reserve. Errors are included on it.

In regards to these services, they included the proper conveying and selling of Caldwell's reserve lands. In conjunction with this, he worked to ensure that each deed of sale was endorsed with a President’s of the United States signature. This signature was strictly enforced by the language of Caldwell's original land patent, which made any sales of his land legally binding. In all, a total of six real estate transactions were completed by Bronson. (88) These land transactions included: 80 acres to George W. Dole and Richard Hamilton in June of 1833 for $100; 160 acres to Richard Nicolas, Sarah Amantus, Eleanor Hamilton, and infant heirs of Richard Jo and Diana W. Hamilton in July of 1833 for $200; 160 acres to Philo Carpenter in July of 1833 for $200; 720 acres to Arthur Bronson in 1833 for $900; 160 acres to Captain Seth Johnson in November of 1833 for $200; 80 and 160 acres respectively to Julius B. Kingsbury in November of 1834 for $300. (89)

Although this should have been an easy venture for Arthur Bronson, as based upon his experiences, it was not. Some troubles undermining his efforts were that the property lines of the sold land tracts were all inaccurate. Apparently, at some point prior to this problem, the reserve was surveyed by a surveyor named Mr. Herrington according to the government lines, but not smaller tracts for private sales. As a result of this, difficulties arose between land owners as to what land and timber belonged to whom. In order to remedy this, Col. Hamilton addressed Representative William L. May to ascertain if a formal survey of the reserve could be made. Through this effort, in 1836, a formal survey of the reserve was completed by Deputy Land Surveyor A. H. Evans. (90)

Unfortunately, this surveying of the reserve did not end all of the problems faced by the land owners. Another pressing issue they had to endure was the amount of time it took to have their deeds endorsed by a president. The reason for this delay was the result of Billy Caldwell's land patent not having been issued until June 1, 1839, when thereafter it was sent directly to Arthur Bronson. (91) As a result of this, none of the landowners' deeds received their endorsements until 1841 by President John Tyler (with the exception of Bronson who was able to painstakingly attain his in 1838 by President Martin Van Buren). Regardless of this situation, the landowners often had to deal with proprietors stealing the timber off their land as they waited for their legally approved titles from the government. (92)

As previously stated, it wasn’t until June 1, 1839 that Billy Caldwell’s land patent was issued and sent to Arthur Bronson, (93)but it is unlikely that Caldwell ever saw it. The reason for this was because he was west of the Mississippi River when the patent was issued. Since Bronson was handling all the affairs related to the sold parcels, there would have been no need for him to review it.

In regards to the language of the land patent several facts should be highlighted. The obvious was that it was issued in the name of Billy Caldwell on June 4, 1839. This said tract of land, which was referred to as Reserve 422 A by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, was comprised of two and one half sections of land (1,600 acres). Its location was in Township 40 and 41, range 13 East, of the 3rd Principal Meridian, on the east and west sides of the Chicago River, above and adjoining the Line of the Purchase in 1816. (94) Further, as described within the patent, this reserve was to be reserved for Billy Caldwell and his heirs forever. This referred to those land parcels not approved for lease or conveyance by a President of the United States. Firmly supporting this were those words written into Caldwell's land patent by President Martin Van Buren which stated:

Now know ye that there is therefore granted by the United States unto the said Billy Caldwell and to his heirs the tract of land above described. To have and to hold the said tract of land with the appurtenances unto the said Billy Caldwell and his heirs and assigns forever, but never to be “leased or conveyed” by him or his heirs to any person whatsoever without the permission of the President of the United States. (95)

Interestingly, had Arthur Bronson sold off all 1600 acres of land in Billy Caldwell's reserve, the patent’s words would have lost their legal binding power. However, that was not the case, as Bronson's selling of all the lands in the reserve never occurred. Instead, for whatever reason(s), he only sold off 1,520 acres out of the total 1,600. Thus, this left 80 acres of land never approved by a president for lease or conveyance. As a result, it was not until several decades later that this situation led to an unexpected twist of fate.

While working on different fronts to improve his life in 1833, none was able to equal the magnitude of the event that Billy Caldwell participated in during the month of September. This event was the Treaty of Chicago. (96) With the bringing forth of this treaty and Caldwell’s role again as a negotiator for the United Nations of the Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie Indians, his dream of a boundary line was about to turn into a reality.

A concise overview of this event timelines the major points. The treaty itself began on the 10th day of September in the year 1833, at which time the United States commissioners who were charged with the oversight of the negotiations included George B. Parker (Governor of the Michigan Territory), Col. Thomas Owen (U.S. Agent for the United Tribes), and Col. William Weatherford (from Morgan County, Illinois). As for its location, the treaty took place at Fort Dearborn as described within the minutes of the treaty, while also Charles L. Latrobe‘s own written observations of the event. (97) This location is important to clarify, due to the fact that in 1937 a monument was erected under an elm tree in the Sauganash neighborhood of Chicago, whose settlers had claimed as the site of the treaty negotiations in 1835. (98)

The first discussions of the treaty were held on September 14th, when Governor Porter informed the Indians of the United Nations that their Great Father had heard their complaints. These concerns were that they now were surrounded on all sides by the white man, as a result of the Prairie du Chien treaty. To remedy this situation, Porter inquired if they would be willing to sell the remainder of their lands in the Chicago region. Through such a sale, the Indians would be able to move west of the Mississippi River, where they could experience happier lives. (99)

Following Porter's speech, the Indians were sent away to council over the selling of their lands. Before doing so, they were instructed to return to the fort with an answer once they heard its cannons fire. Following this, on the 16th, the Indians returned to the fort to declare to the commissioners their unwillingness to release any remaining lands. Not satisfied with this answer the commissioners sent them back into council for three more days. (100)

Once reconvened on September 19th, an Indian by the name of Way-mich-go stood up and emotionally expressed himself to the commissioners:

When you call us with council at Prairie du Chien we were in trouble and not know what to do. We then appointed Caldwell and Robinson as our Chief Counselors – we are one flesh – They have been raised amongst us. So long as they live, they were chosen to manage our business. Whatever they say and do we agree to. They will take time and council together and determine what shall be done. (101)

Following this speech and in support of its message, another Indian named Ap-te-k-zhich rose up and declared:

We have the same confidence in Caldwell and Robinson now that we had when they were first appointed to manage the concerns of the United Tribes. We hope that it may continue. All the bands united in appointing them. The St. Joseph Indians have the same confidence in them that we have. (102)

Although supported by the tribes to handle their negotiations, Billy Caldwell and Alexander Robinson were only allowed to consult with them. As reasoned by the commissioners, this was because they were not authentic chiefs and the Great Father forbade it. (103)

Following this, on September 26th, Governor Porter spoke to the Indians acknowledging their choice of Billy Caldwell and Alexander Robinson to aid them. After this, the treaty was read aloud to the chiefs and their headmen, who all accepted it openly. In regards to the terms of the treaty, it was agreed that the Indians would cede all their remaining lands between Lake Michigan and the Mississippi River, receive the same amount of land at their new western residence, and be paid $1,000,000 in various ways. (104)

The finalizing of this treaty took place on October 6th, when chosen chiefs and headmen signed all of the stipulations associated with it. While this validation occurred each was presented with a medal. Billy Caldwell, who himself received one of the largest and finest medallions, was given added praise by Governor Porter for his efforts with negotiating the treaty on behalf of the Indians. Following his words, Caldwell rose up and spoke the following, which formally brought everything to an end:

You see that our Great Father by his commissioners here, has bestowed upon me a medal, as evidence of his love and good wishes for the welfare of his Indian Children You my brothers have caused this to be done. I have ever been your friend and will ever continue to do so. When you first called me to act as your friend and counselors, we were in great trouble. We were surrounded by a great fire, but the great spirit protected us and we escaped unhurt. You have known me forty years during all which time Sauganash has been foremost with his counsel and aid, when trouble came upon you.

Let us now open our ears to the wise council of the Great Father. Let us take up our families and place them all beyond the great Mississippi. But it must not be forgotten that your principal chief is not myself, but he who sits in our presence (Po-pe-ne-bee). We must look to him and respect him as our principal man. He inherited his rank from his father who is dead. It is by his right of birth and should be respected in its possession.

In ten days after we separate, I shall go to the west and examine the country which our Great Father has set apart for us, and after I make a selection I will return to you and give you a faithful account of it. I hope that I will be able to satisfy you all and make your hearts glad, and that you will rejoice we have opened our ears to the advice of our Great Father and sold him our lands on this side of the Mississippi River. I hope we will all remove to that country and that we may grow into a great nation and be prosperous and happy. I will open a plain way for you to travel on without trouble. Wherever I meet our red brethren of other nations, I will hold them fast by the hands and cause them to be our friends, and open their arms to receive us, when we leave the land of our fathers and remove thither. Listen not to the wicked advice of bad white men. Reject their unwise counsels, but open your ears to your chiefs and listen to their words. (105)

Following these negotiations, on May 22, 1834, the Treaty of Chicago became officially ratified by the federal government. As originally outlined within the terms of the treaty, Billy Caldwell was to be paid $400 a year, plus another $10,000 in lieu of a reserve. However, before the ratification occurred, this $10,000 payment was promptly reduced to $5000. (106)
Regardless of this, Caldwell had finally achieved the boundary line (Mississippi River) between the Indians and Americans, which he had so longed for.

Interestingly, to say that Billy Caldwell’s intentions during this event were of a selfless nature would be flawed. As previously written, Caldwell was a man of opportunity, and as viewed through his own compensation package in this treaty he faired quit well. Supporting this view were historian Frank R. Grover’s thoughts as based upon Charles J. Latrobe’s observations:

That in the negotiation of this treaty there was more intrigue, and more attention to selfish interests of half-breeds, traders, and others seeking personal gain, than in the negotiation of any other Indian treaty seems quit evident. The reading of the schedules of beneficiaries attached to the treaty would tend to indicate that the rights of the Indians themselves were quite a secondary matter.
One remarkable feature of this treaty is the fact that by its provisions some 500 to 1000 persons, most of them with no Indian blood in their veins, derived personal gain from the transaction. The allowance and payment of Indian claims, ranging in amount from a few dollars to many thousands, and, as already noted, about one third of the cash consideration was thus dispersed. Among individual beneficiaries also appear the following: Alexander Robinson $10,000 cash and $300 annuity “in addition to annuities already granted”; Billy Caldwell $10,000 cash and $400 annuity “in addition to annuities already granted”; etc. (107)

Moving past this event, but prior to his leaving the Illinois country, Billy Caldwell experienced several more events in his life. Around 1834 (or 1831 as some sources indicate), after Mark Beaubian built Chicago's first framed tavern, Caldwell approached him and said, “Mark, name your house after me and I'll make you a present.” Beaubian, who was excited about this proposition, promptly replied, “I'll do it Billy,” and named it the Sauganash. Following this exchange of words Caldwell presented to him one section of land. (108)

At about this same time (or as early as 1828) it was rumored that the United States government built a frame house for Billy Caldwell on the south side of Indiana Street in the north division of Chicago. As accounts have written, this was done as a favor to Caldwell for the services he provided during the Prairie du Chien negotiations. (109) Unfortunately, no primary documentation exists in the Bureau of Indian Affairs 422 A file or elsewhere to support this story.

During that same year on March 17, Billy Caldwell wrote a letter to his half brother Francis. In this letter, Caldwell for the first time revealed the exact date of his birth. This date was March 17th or St. Patrick's Day, which as he wrote "had passed over his head for the 52nd time in his life." (110) Through this documented acknowledgement it is possible to discern that Caldwell was 52 years old when he wrote this letter, and born on March 17, 1782.

Furthermore within this letter Billy Caldwell expressed a firm stance against Francis, who had previously chastised him for masquerading as a Pottawatomie chief at the two treaty negotiations he participated in. Apparently, this did not sit well with his English family who felt embarrassed by his actions. In response, Caldwell stated that he was unsure as to whom he

should blame, since it was either the fault of his Indian ignorance or his British education. Caldwell further went on to inform Francis that he would only take on a political role again if it aided his Indian brethrens’ move across the Mississippi River, away from the white man's destructive behaviors. (111)

Finally, during the fall of that year and prior to his leaving the Chicago region forever, Billy Caldwell married his third wife. As written by the Chicago Democrat newspaper, the marriage happened on the morning of November 18, 1834. Caldwell’s chosen bride for this union was a Pottawatomie and French woman named Saqua LeGrand. (112)

Following their marriage, it was rumored that the couple moved into a cabin upon his Chicago River reserve. This home was located north of Devon Avenue, east of the Chicago River, south of a prairie, and in a grove at the top of a hill. (113) Unfortunately, no primary documentation exists to support this story. Added, since Philo Carpenter purchased this land in 1833, it is questionable whether the couple would have had permission to settle upon it. Interestingly enough, all claims regarding this story surfaced during the Cook County Forest Preserves formative years.

Despite the year of 1834 being busy for Billy Caldwell, he also lead a delegation of Indians to inspect their new reservation in Platte County, Missouri. Following this examination, Caldwell made his final journey west with his Indian brethren on September 21, 1835, under the guidance of Colonel J. B. F. Russell of the U. S. Army. (114) After living there for a short period of time, they were all moved to the area of Trader's Point (in the Iowa Territory) in 1837. (115) The reason for this had to do with the Platte Purchase of 1836, in which Joseph Robidoux sold the northwest corner of Missouri to the United States government for $7,500. (116)

Once settled at their second home overlooking the Missouri River, Billy Caldwell became the leader of a Pottawatomie band consisting of 2,000 Indians. As their leader, he was given the responsibility of managing the tribe's finances and negotiating with the Americans when required. (117) In regard to their home, it became known to Indians and other persons in the area as Camp Caldwell. (118) Originally, it was established near Point Aux Poules (Trader's Point), about 10 miles south of Council Bluffs and across the river from Bellevue. However, at some unknown time, it was relocated to the Indian Creek area in Council Bluffs. (119) While living there, life for Caldwell's band was not without its problems. Repeatedly, he had to use his negotiation skills to resist efforts to move his tribe to the Osage Reservation in Kansas. (120)

In 1838, Billy Caldwell welcomed Father Pierre De Smet to the area. During the spring of this year, De Smet was sent to the Trader's Point region to create a mission amongst the Pottawatomie Indians. Upon meeting De Smet, Caldwell gave him three cabins of which one was to become a church. The exact date of the mission's establishment occurred on May 31, 1838. Until 1839, De Smet remained at and undertook the management of the mission when he was transferred. Following his departure, the mission began to slowly lose its following, before finally being disbanded in July or August of 1841. (121)

The few years Billy Caldwell lived in this home were not poverty ridden ones for him. Annually, he received approximately $1,000 in annuities, owed to him by the federal government for all his past work. (122) In order to protect these monies while off on buffalo hunts, he would call upon Joseph Robidoux to act as his Power of Attorney. One example occurred in June 1841 when he accompanied a group of men from his tribe on a hunt into Sioux country. The Sioux Indians were not fond of the other tribes in general and disputes arose from time to time. For this reason, Caldwell made sure that Robidoux understood to collect and distribute his annuity amongst the tribe's people if he were to die during the excursion. Once safely returned though Caldwell recollected it. (123)

Unfortunately for Joseph Robidoux, this business arrangement with Billy Caldwell did not last long. Sadly, it ended at the time of Caldwell's death on September 29, 1841 (speculatively due to Cholera). As stated within his obituary by the Chicago Democrat newspaper:

Died at Council Bluffs on the 29th of September last, Sau-Ga-Nash (Billy Caldwell), principal chief of the United Nations of the Ottawa, Pottawatomie, and Chippewa, in the 60th year of his age, he was well and favorably known to the old residents of Chicago, and the northern frontier of Illinois, as an old and efficient friend during the Sac and Foxes troubles – 1832.-- communicated. (124)

Mr. Robidoux’s last dealings with Caldwell came during that fall when he was upon his death bed. Before passing away he had sent for Robidoux. However, due to the fact that Robidoux was busy posting an account, he was unable to answer Caldwell's call. In turn when he did, it was too late, as Caldwell was weak and unable to conduct business. (125)

Upon Billy Caldwell's death, his remains were interred in the Indian burial grounds near the mission. This site was reportedly on Pierce Street in Council Bluffs. Interestingly enough, many years ago when the street was under construction, a group of Indian bones were unearthed. Although it was not known if any of these belonged to Caldwell, they were reburied in the city’s Catholic cemetery. Out of some form of respect, the remains were given a small burial marker bearing the inscription “Indian.” (126)

Ironically, Council Bluffs is not the only city to lay claim to the burial site of Billy Caldwell. Another city which makes claim to it is Three Rivers, Michigan. According to its history, Sauganash (Caldwell) was a Pottawatomie Indian who lived and died there. Upon his death, as was tradition, his body was positioned sitting up in a log pen above the ground. After some time, his remains were buried next to the old Sac War Trail, which passed through the now extinct village of Eschol. To commemorate this site, a tombstone was placed upon it in 1911 by the Abiel Fellows Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Currently this marker resides at the Riverside Cemetery in Three Rivers. (127)

Grave of Sauganash near Three Rivers, Michigan in 1911.

(Below) A close up of the marker.

Unfortunately for Three Rivers this is not the burial of Billy Caldwell. Instead, it is likely that this grave belongs to a Pottawatomie chief named Sau-au-quett. Interestingly, Sau-au-quett lived at the same time Billy Caldwell did and was a participant at the 1833 Treaty of Chicago.Unfortunately, he was murdered in 1839 by one of his own tribesmen who opposed the selling of their lands to the Americans. (128)

Following Billy Caldwell’s death in 1841, the state of his tribe in the Trader’s Point region began to crumble. As communicated by Indian Sub-Agent Stephen Cooper in his annual report, the tribe had made little progress since Caldwell's passing. Their failure was the result of the Indians having no farmer or school teacher to help them progress, which was due to the government's failure to employ these positions. Added to this problem, the Indians had only one blacksmith who could not meet all their demands. (129)

As the number of issues pressed down on the Indians over the next few years, a larger problem presented itself to Billy Caldwell's widow in the year of 1843. During that June, Indian Sub-Agent Richard E. Elliott wrote to Indian Agent D. Mitchell in St. Louis regarding Caldwell's annuity due to his wife at the time of his passing. Apparently, it was Caldwell’s last payment due from the federal government, but his wife never received it. This problem stemmed from the time of Caldwell's death, when Mr. Robidoux failed to secure Power of Attorney from him before he died. Despite Robidoux's efforts to remediate this problem, the Indian Department declared that it was without such a letter. As a result of this, it was suggested that Caldwell's widow never received his last payment, and was plunged into a life of poverty. (130)

Following this, on September 15, 1845, P. D. Clark wrote Francis Caldwell to describe the last moments of his half brother's life. As described by Clark, Billy died in 1841. The day prior to his death, Billy's half brother James had paid him a visit. As observed by James, Billy appeared to be gradually recovering from his illness. He was calm and of a clear mind, talking

quite normally. However, as the next night approached his condition worsened. As stated by James, “his powerful mind, which but a little while ago was calm and clear, was now wrapped in somber gloom. Before the next day's dawn, his spirit had left its earthly tenement.” Upon his death, Caldwell left no will to his wife. She, herself, eventually passed away during the winter months of 1844-1845. (131)

During the year of 1846, the United States negotiated another treaty with the Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie, which removed them to the Atchinson County Reservation in Kansas. As stated in the minutes of the treaty by an Indian, “The bones of our great Chief Mr. Caldwell are there (Trader's Point).” (132) These words paid respect Billy Caldwell’s role in the lives of his people, while also supporting his resting place.

Although these words would have made a poetic ending to the story of Billy Caldwell's life, they did not. Almost twenty-seven years following his death, Caldwell's British family stepped back into the picture. This reentry of theirs was the result of a letter written to Thomas Caldwell (Billy's half brother) by Secretary of the Interior R. M. Clelland in the year 1855. Through this letter, Thomas Caldwell was informed that 160 acres of land in the northwest end of Billy Caldwell's Chicago River reserve was never sold off. (133)

As a result of this, Mary Ann Caldwell (widow of Thomas Caldwell) appointed attorney William Caldwell (son of Francis Caldwell) to take possession of all the remaining lands of Billy Caldwell. Apparently, it was the family's belief that they were lawfully entitled to these and could be claimed as Billy's heirs. Unfortunately, the United States government did not see it this way, as the family's claim was denied. (134)

Following this defeat, Billy Caldwell's British family never again attempted to lay claim to his lands. Despite this fact, it did not mark the last time a blood relation attempted to gain control of them. In the year of 1872, something never written about in any description of Billy Caldwell occurred. A living bloodline of his surfaced. More specifically, a son, who went by the name of Pe-y-mo (alias Caldwell).

Little is known about Pe-y-mo Caldwell, the only child of Billy Caldwell's to survive. While his father was Billy Caldwell, his mother's name was Ma-sa-qua. (135) Presumably, this woman was Caldwell's third wife Saqua LeGrand, only gaining a phonetically altered spelling to her name over the years. As to when he was born, nothing is known. However, it must not be ruled out that Pe-y-mo was likely conceived years before his parent's marriage in 1834, as he was said to be approximately 55 years old when he came forth. (136)

As documented, Pe-y-mo was at one point a member of the Kickapoo Nation in Kansas. In 1862, he received 84 acres of land under the name Pe-wa-mo through the United State’s treaty negotiations with the Kickapoo. (137) After becoming naturalized on October 25, 1870, he absolved his ties with the Kickapoo Nation and took up the responsibilities of American citizenship. He did have a family, although it is not known how many children he had. Finally, being that his name was written onto documents with different spellings, it can be understood that he was illiterate. (138)

As documented on January 27, 1872, with his name spelled as Pawymo Colwell, he appointed attorney Samuel V. Niles of Washington D. C. to be his Power of Attorney. Pe-y-mo's reason for retaining Mr. Niles, as written on his Power of Attorney form, was so he could: "Procure a government patent or title to all lands coming to him by the death of his father William Caldwell. Said land lying and bearing in the State of Illinois. Near Poplar Grove in the Northern Part of the state." (139)

This Power of Attorney letter was officially filed by Niles in Washington D. C. on April 30, 1872. (140)

Prior to this filing, Samuel V. Niles wrote Indian Affairs Commissioner Francis Walker to inform him of Pe-y-mo's entitlement and Power of Attorney claim. Added, he made a request for a copy of Billy Caldwell's land patent to his Chicago River Reserve. Through this means, Niles began to make progress towards procuring Pe-y-mo's legal right to the land embraced within the patent. (141)

Following several correspondences between the two men, Niles informed Walker on June 8, 1872 that:

As attorney of Pe-y-mo, alias Caldwell, the son and only heir at law of Billy Caldwell and now a citizen of the United States. I present here with for your approval a deed made by him to Benjamin F. Freeland, of June 15, 1872 in and to such remainder of the unsurveyed land in Cook Co., Ills patented by the United States to his father, the said Billy Caldwell, June 4, 1839.

This warranty deed, which was made in Kansas, consisted of 160 acres of land and thereafter was recorded as document #106253 in Tract Book 225 B, at the Cook County Recorder of Deeds office on March 25, 1873. To support the fact that Pe-y-mo was Billy Caldwell's only son and justify the sale of land to Freeland for $1000, Niles submitted two pieces of evidence. These included Pe-y-mo's naturalization paper from October 25, 1870, and the affidavits recorded during the creation of Freeland's deed. (142)

Although Pe-y-mo's naturalization paper provided few details about his life, an affidavit provided by an Indian named Paschael Pensoneau did. As described by Pensoneau on June 20, 1872, in his earlier years he was acquainted with Billy Caldwell and knew of his marriage to Ma- Sa-Qua with whom he lived until his death. She herself, lived only four years after him and never took another husband. As further indicated, Caldwell and his wife bore two children together, a girl and a boy. The girl, whose name is not known, died at a young age without ever marrying or having children. The boy, Pe-y-mo, lived to adulthood and thus became Caldwell's only son and heir at law. (143)

Unfortunately, even with all the evidence supplied to the Department of Indian Affairs, the deed was denied for approval by the president. The reason for its denial resulted from the fact that the land was not properly conveyed. In order for the deed to have earned an endorsed signature by the president, a diagram prepared by a competent surveyor was needed, along with a description of the land to be conveyed. (144)

Following this rejection, on April 13, 1873, Samuel V. Niles once again attempted to have Benjamin Freeland's deed approved. To support this application, on April 22nd, he provided copies of Pe-y-mo's conveyance, naturalization paper, and a certificate from Justice of the Peace E. H. Osborn of Atchison County. (145) In response, on May 16th, the Department of Indian Affairs indicated that no records existed for Hamilton and Dole (80 acres) or Kingsbury (80 acres). Regardless, due to possible inaccuracies in their records, the Department of Indian Affairs required Niles to submit certification on this parcel of land from the Cook County Recorder of Deeds. This was to assure that no approved deeds existed already for the 160 acres. (146)

After pursuing this, Samuel V. Niles communicated back on February 2, 1875 that only 80 acres had never been conveyed. These 80 acres of land comprised the northwest section of the reserve. (147) Although originally marked as being sold to Julius Kingsbury on an Indian Department map, this information was incorrect. Regardless, Freeland's deed was again denied approval, due to issues surrounding the correct conveying of the land. (148)

The northwest 80 acres of the present day Caldwell Reserve.

Despite this second failure, Benjamin Freeland continued to try to gain possession of the land for which he paid $1,000. On December 27, 1876, he filed a lawsuit against a man named Robb Robinson, who had taken up residence on the 80 acres. Apparently, on September 14, 1875, Robinson had refused to leave the land after being notified that Freeland was going to takepossession of it. As a result of this situation, Freeland made a claim to the Superior Court of Illinois that only he had legal title to the land. Unfortunately for Freeland, the Illinois Supreme Court did not rule in his favor, as Robinson was allowed to stay on the land. (149) Finalizing this, on December 5, 1879 Freeland's warranty deed for the 160 acres of land was revoked from Tract Book 225 B in the Cook County Recorder of Deeds office. (150)

Interestingly enough, as found within the files of this case were two depositions that revealed several more interesting facts about Billy Caldwell and Pe-y-mo. The first of these came from a man named W. Y. Tasse, who knew Caldwell when they both were living in Chicago during 1818. Through his dealings with him, Tasse knew Caldwell to dress in citizen's clothes only. Although unsupported, Tasse claimed that Caldwell was Pe-y-mo's stepfather. Apparently, Caldwell loved Pe-y-mo so dearly that he looked upon him as his son. In turn, Pe-y-mo always referred to him as his own late father. Despite this view, the United States government did give credence to Pe-y-mo as being Caldwell's son and heir. (151)

The second deposition came from another man named John Williams, who had known Pe-y-mo for about 47 years. According to him, Pe-y-mo had lived in the area of Poplar Grove, Illinois before moving to Jackson County, Kansas. While living in Jackson County with the Prairie Band Pottawatomie, Peymo’s wife passed away and was buried on the bank of Soldier Creek. In 1864, Pe-y-mo moved to Brown County, Kansas where he remained with the Kickapoo tribe until naturalized as a citizen of the United States. Following this, he headed to Atchison County, Kansas. (152)

Subsequent of the Benjamin Freeland affair, Pe-y-mo tried twice more to sell off his inherited 80 acres of land. The first time was to Cyrus Beede who was the Chief Clerk of the Indian Affairs Department in Kansas. Unfortunately, as described by the limited documentation, nothing binding ever took place. (153)

The second occurrence happened in 1895 and involved a scheming situation. As recorded, Pe-y-mo attempted to deed his northwest 80 acres of land to a half-breed Pottawatomie named Joseph Mech. Apparently, Mech paid Pe-y-mo in cash for the land, but prior to receiving the deed his attorney (Mr. Berham) requested that it be made out in his name. In response to this, Mech hired a second attorney to stop any action from occurring on the deed by the Department of Indian Affairs. Once again, as in all previous attempts made by Pe-y-mo to convey his land, no signature by a president was awarded to the deed. (154)

Following these failed attempts by Pe-y-mo to convey the northwest 80 acres of land in the Caldwell Reserve, no further transactions ever took place. Building on this, as these two affairs were the last recorded events related to Pe-y-mo, nothing further is know about his life. Added, as previously stated, nothing is also known about the lives of his children. Regardless of this, to rule out the possibility of any descendants of Pe-y-mo, and thus Billy Caldwell, living today could perhaps prove to be a misjudgment.

In regards to the northwest 80 acres of Billy Caldwell's reserve, no official conveyance ever occurred with it. This fact is supported by those warranty deeds approved by past Presidents of the United States, as located within Miscellaneous Deeds volumes 3 and 4 at the United States National Archives. (155) Currently, this tract of land is a part of the Cook County Forest Preserve's land holdings, as it was acquired during the public entity's formative years through condemnation and direct sales. (156) Despite these truths, the fact that this preserved parcel of land from Billy Caldwell’s original reserve still exists today, is not only a historical treasure for the people of Chicago, Cook County, and Illinois, but also any descendants who may be living today.

Peter T. Gayford is a graduate of Dominican University's (River Forest, IL) Library and Information Science program. For the past six years, Gayford has been researching the life of Billy Caldwell (Sau - ga - nash) and events following his passing.

Footnotes and the bibliography for this article may be found listed under "Pages," at top, right.

Billy Caldwell: An Updated History, Part 2 (Indian Affairs)

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 03:32:49 PDT

By Peter T Gayford

Following the Fort Dearborn massacre, in the early winter of 1812, Billy Caldwell returned to Amherstburg to enlist himself in the service of the British Crown. (43) At the time of Caldwell's enlistment, his father was a Lieutenant Colonel of the 1st Essex Militia Regiment, and working to create a special corp. of rangers. As a result of his status, Caldwell Sr. was able to secure commissions for all of his sons, with the exception of Billy. Not being deterred by this rejection Billy went ahead and obtained a commission as a Captain in the Indian Department. (44) Since he was highly influential among the Ojibwa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie Indians around Lake Michigan, this commission suited him best. (45)

Billy Caldwell's first combat experience came at River Raisin, Michigan, in the year 1813. During this battle, Caldwell took prisoner an American officer (a Kentuckian) who was very tall and heavy, in comparison to himself. As Caldwell was trying to rescue this man from his Indian comrades, the American officer lunged at him after being spoken to in a Pottawatomie tongue, instead of the English language. At the exact moment this situation was occurring, a Pottawatomie named Wau-gosh (or the Fox) yelled, “Look out Caldwell he is going to stab you!” Unfortunately, when Caldwell turned in response to this warning, he caught his foot and fell to the ground. At once, the American officer jumped on top of him and plunged a knife through his neck. In response, Caldwell clutched the American's wrists and restrained them from causing any further damage. While struggling for his life, Wau-gosh advanced and shot the American officer through the head, killing him. As a result of this attack on Caldwell, the Indians revenged themselves by slaughtering all of the American prisoners. (46)

Amazingly, the knife was able to be extracted from Billy Caldwell's neck, and over the period of a few weeks he recovered. After his initial recovery, Capt. William Caldwell and Col. Elliott transported him by sleigh back to the family's home in Malden. It was there at this home he remained until a complete recovery was achieved. (47)

Following this injury, Billy Caldwell went on to participate in several other battles during the war. Among these included the Siege of Fort Meigs (May 1813), the Battle of Fort Stephenson (August 1813), and the Battle of the Thames (Moravian Town, October 1813). Along with these campaigns, Caldwell also partook in helping to defend the Niagara border. Interestingly, it was at the Battle of the Thames that Caldwell left the battlefield in disgust over the fact that he ever signed up to fight for the British. Apparently, as a result of this battle, he was left feeling that General Proctor was the greatest of cowards. His deeply rooted feelings were based upon Proctor's early retreat, which left the Indians alone to fight the Americans. As a result of this maneuver, the Indians ended up being soundly defeated by the Americans. (48)

Following the end of the war, Billy Caldwell became sought after by the American government for his skills and talents. To try to win his loyalty, they tempted him with a great number of gifts, all of which he turned down in favor of staying loyal to the British government. (49) In May of 1814, following the death of Matthew Elliott, Caldwell was provided with an opportunity to establish himself as the new Superintendent of the Indians for the Western District. (50) Unfortunately, his efforts brought him into contention with his own father, who was the department's first choice. In the end, Caldwell Sr. overwhelmingly won the right to hold the position, while Billy had to settle for his second in command. (51)

During that same year (1814), Billy Caldwell made his first attempt to overthrow his father from that position he so desired. To do so, he aligned himself with several junior officers in the British Army. Being young and idealistic, these officers took a firm stance against their seniors and the role of civil authorities in the army. Although their efforts may have been viewed as noble at best, in the end they failed, and Billy remained subordinate to his father's authority. (52)

After this attempt to supplant his father failed, things began to change in favor of Billy Caldwell in the year 1815. On March 1st, Caldwell received a letter from Major General Porter that requested his testimony on the River Raisin affair, in which he was wounded. As stated within the letter, it was Porter's intention to inform all interested persons of Caldwell's courage, zeal, and activity during the battle. (53) These words, were no doubt an attempt to help pave a better road for Caldwell within the Indian Department.

Regardless of this conjecture, Billy Caldwell's path was not without its bumps. One instance of troubling moments took place on August 25, 1815, when Caldwell received a letter of inquiry from William Claus about his abusive conduct toward a fellow officer in the department. Apparently, Caldwell had insulted a Lieutenant Perin with abusive language, made threats to restrain him in the guard house, and rejected his registration to the Indian Department. (54) This situation no doubt brought into question Caldwell’s ability to handle the responsibilities of his position.

During the time Billy Caldwell was struggling with these affairs, his father was dealing with his own. While working as the Western District's Superintendent of Indians, Caldwell Sr.’s abilities to command effectively came into question by William Claus. Added members of the Indian Department had anonymously been accusing him of establishing his sons at their expense. Furthermore, his belligerent ideals of post war relations with America were not in line with Britain's. (55)

Compounding William Caldwell's problems was a conflict that took place between Amherstburg's Commandant Reginald James and himself over the resettlement of the western Indians in 1815. This conflict led to the virtual starvation of the Indians, along with an all out revolt by them. Responding to this embarrassment, General Proctor up through the highest levels of British command sought to hold Caldwell Sr. and James accountable for the mess, along with several other failures of the war. (56) In October of 1815, William Caldwell openly insulted Reginald James in public by insinuating that he was a liar and broke off all verbal communications with him. In response to this assault, on October 21st James suspended Caldwell Sr. replacing him with Billy. (57) Unknown to Caldwell Sr., was that James and his son had been collaborating to remove him in order to make Billy the new Superintendent of Indians for the Western District. (58)

Unfortunately for Billy Caldwell, his new position within the British hierarchy was short lived. While in this position, the department's senior officers realized how incapable he was at managing his duties. Added, they then began to understand Caldwell's only reason for wanting his new position, which was nothing more than opportunism. As a result of this, in September of 1816, he was eased out of his position and removed from the Indian Department altogether. (59)

Prior to Billy Caldwell's final departure from the Indian Department, he wrote an emotional letter to William Claus, which revealed new information about his true loyalties in life. As stated by Caldwell, while he was living in the Indian country (500 miles away from his home), the British army had offered him a high salary with the ability to trade freely if he kept the Indians neutral for them. Unfortunately, as generous as this offer was, he declined it. His reason for doing so was because he wanted to support the promise that the British government had always made to the Indians since the days of Brock. This promise was that a boundary line would be created in order to separate the Indian's territory from that of the American‘s. (60)

Furthermore, in every past war in which the British had solicited the Indians’ help, a boundary line was promised to them. However this promise was never honored, as British lands were handed over to the American government at the end of each war. (61) As a result of this and other injustices, the Billy Caldwell wrote on to open William Claus’ mind to the possibilities of a day when a boundary line might exist between the Indians and Americans. (62)

Following his release from the Indian Department, Billy Caldwell removed himself to the Amherstburg region. The exact place of his residence is not known. However, while in the vicinity he did work to establish himself as a merchant. Unfortunately, for all his learned skills and past experiences in the trade, he was unable to succeed . (63)

In January of 1818, Billy Caldwell’s father wrote his Last Will and Testament. As expected, Billy was not first on his father’s list for gifting, but rather the last. Regardless, William Caldwell did bequeath to his son one lot of land in the Harwich Township area. (64) This lot of land was located 60.65 miles east of the Amherstburg land holdings. (65)

Sometime around 1818 Billy Caldwell uprooted himself once again and headed back to the Fort Dearborn area. (66) Up until his return, Caldwell had remained true to his British identity. However, once integrated into his new American society, he had to work hard to gain the American's trust. (67) Among the opportunistic endeavors he undertook to align himself with his American counterparts included the following. In 1825, he sought an appointment to become a Justice of the Peace. Following this symbolic accomplishment, in August of 1826, Caldwell served as a judge in Peoria County's first election. Added, he also served as an election judge on July 24th, August 2nd, and November 25th in the year 1830. Previously, in 1826, Caldwell was recommended to the Governor of Illinois to hold the Justice of the Peace position for Peoria County. Also during that year, he became an appraiser for the estate of John Crafts, a local trader who passed away during the year of 1825. (68) During 1827, Caldwell also provided his services for securing information related to a possible Winnebago uprising. Despite these ancillary ventures, it must be noted that over the course of these years Caldwell continued to work for the Forsythe, Kinzie, and newly associated Wolcotts’ fur trade business. (69)

In the year of 1829, Billy Caldwell's life turned toward another venture. It was during this period that the United States government began working to create an official treaty with the Chippewa, Ottawa, Pottawatomie, and Winnebago Indians in order to relieve them of their lands. These lands, known as the Mineral Country (due to the abundance of lead mines), were located south of the Wisconsin River and east of the Mississippi River. (70) To ensure the treaty‘s success, General John McNeil, Col. Pierre Menard, and Caleb Atwater were elected as commissioners to carry out the negotiations. (71)

On July 15, 1829, all three commissioners arrived at Prairie du Chien where the treaty was to be held and met with the principal men of the Winnebago tribe and United Nations of the Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie Indians. In all, there were approximately 1,300 men, women, and children present, along with the tribes’ respected agents and interpreters. Once introduced, they agreed that two treaties should be negotiated. The first was for the United Nations, while the second the Winnebago. (72)

As previously stated, in 1829 Billy Caldwell's life began to move in another direction. This change resulted from his participation in the first treaty negotiations between the United States government and United Nations of Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie. Being a participant, he played an influential role in negotiating the outcomes of the treaty on behalf of the Indians. Added, through his involvement in the process he became recognized as a Chief of the United Nations. These facts were supported through the following entries on July 27:

Council convened in the afternoon. A Chippewa rose and spoke. “My fathers! I am going to raise my children up now and hope they will have their senses. Here is ourflesh (Billy Caldwell), and we have all appointed him to talk to you for us for the three nations. He is our principal man.”

An Ottawa spoke. “Fathers! You have heard our brother there has said. He is a Chippewa and I am an Ottawa. What he has said, we all agree to. We are of the same opinion. Our nations are one body.”

Ka-na-sot, a Pottawatomie spoke next. “My fathers! You have listened to what our brothers have said. We are of the same opinion. You have also listened to us, what we have said, and there is the man (Billy Caldwell) we have all appointed to speak to you. What he says, and does we will always observe. It shall last as long as the world stands. Here is the Chief of the three United Nations of the Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie of Illinois. (73)

Following these speeches, which established Caldwell's leadership role, he placed several drawn-up terms in the hands of the commissioners for consideration. Amongst these terms included a two and one half section of land (1600 acres) for Caldwell himself. (74) Following two days of deliberations, on July 29th, both parties reconvened to finalize the treaty. Meeting alongside the United Nations and Chief Caldwell was their Indian Agent Dr. Wolcott, who was present throughout the negotiations. (75) After the treaty was read aloud and interpreted for the Indians, all participants agreed to the terms and signed it . Although officially agreed to by all on the 29th of July, it was not until January 2nd 1830 that Congress ratified it. (76)

Although Billy Caldwell's role in the negotiations may have been perceived to be of an altruistic nature in favor of the Indians’ welfare, it was not. His acquired status as Chief of the United Nations of Chippewa, Ottawa, and Pottawatomie Indians was in fact no more than a fabricated crown, created through a plan by Dr. Wolcott. In 1857, author Elijah M. Haines became acquainted with Alexander Robinson while conducting several business transactions with him. Apparently, through their conversations, Haines learned that Robinson's title as Chief of the United Nations was not one of inheritance. As explained to him by Robinson, he was made aChief at the Treaty of Prairie du Chien in 1829. Apparently, while in attendance at the treaty Wilmette (Ouilmette) had approached him and said that Dr. Wolcott wanted Billy Caldwell and himself to become Chiefs for the negotiations. In response, they both agreed to do so and were promoted to the positions of Pottawatomie Chiefs. (77)

At the time of the treaty two vacancies in the number of Pottawatomie Chiefs existed, due to recent deaths. These vacancies, if not filled, would have resulted in the United Nations of Indians opposing the sale of their lands. Additionally, as revealed by Robinson, in 1829 Pottawatomie Chiefs were little more than savage individuals. They had no care whatsoever for the white man's interests. As a result of this, Dr. Wolcott was convinced that success in the treaty negotiations could only be guaranteed to the American government if the Indian chiefs were influenced by Caldwell and Robinson. (78)

To assure success, Dr. Wolcott strategically filled the two existing chief vacancies with Billy Caldwell and Alexander Robinson. In turn, this not only guaranteed successful negotiations at Prairie du Chien in 1829, but also the future 1833 treaty at Chicago. The reasons why Dr. Wolcott chose to deploy Caldwell and Robinson in this manner was because although their instincts were that of the white man's, past experiences were filled with faithfulness to the Indians. Due to these conditions, these men could influence the tribes like no others alive. To compensate them, both were rewarded with large tracts of land within the terms of the treaty. (79)

Following the Prairie du Chien affair Billy Caldwell returned to the Chicago region. (80) While there, he involved himself in the proposal of a feeder canal for the Calamic River in 1830, commanded a force of Pottawatomie scouts during the Black Hawk War (1832), and paid for the

education of local Indian children who dressed as Americans. (81) Added, Caldwell also dealt with the death of his first son Alexander in 1832 from his previous marriage to La Natte. Although only in his twenties he unfortunately succumbed from drunkenness. Sadly, as communicated by Caldwell, he saw his son to be a worthless man who was never disciplined to work. (82)

During that year in April, Billy Caldwell composed a letter to Thomas Forsythe that predicted the future of his Indian brethren in the Chicago region. Within this letter, Caldwell wrote and asked if Forsythe had read the papers about the Indians' removal to the west, what his opinion was, and how the Indians were to behave themselves when the “thunderstorms looked black to them.” (83) Added, Caldwell also stated how it had been 50 years since his childhood, and although the years had swiftly passed him by, he still had made few noteworthy accomplishments. Further, Caldwell wondered if he would ever be able to accomplish the mission for which he was born to undertake (a boundary line), or die a coward like Napoleon did. Building upon this, Caldwell's own acknowledgement that the Indians’ move west would take time to complete was an indication that he knew what their destiny was to be. (84)

Peter T. Gayford is a graduate of Dominican University's (River Forest, IL) Library and Information Science program. For the past six years, Gayford has been researching the life of Billy Caldwell (Sau - ga - nash) and events following his passing.

Footnotes and the bibliography for this article may be found listed under "Pages," at top, right.

Billy Caldwell: An Updated History, Part 1 (Early Life)

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 03:31:40 PDT

By Peter T. Gayford

The United States has a vast and rich history, filled with documents and writings of those many people that helped to form this country. During America’s Gilded Age (1869-1896), the United States witnessed an economic boom in its book publishing industry. This expansion was attributed to the country’s post Civil War evolution from an agrarian based society to an industrialized one. (1) It can be ironically speculated that the timing of this growth coupled with the Great Fire of Chicago in 1871 gave writers the opportunity to immortalize the early history of Chicago and its many regions. It was through these writings that the first biographical sketches related to one of North America's most important historical figures appeared. That individual was Billy Caldwell, or as known by his bestowed Indian name, Sauganash (Englishman or English-Speaking). Unfortunately, the majority of these historical depictions embodied many inaccurate accounts about his life since they were primarily based upon collections of exaggerated tales that had been passed down through generations. (2)

During the late 1970's, Anthropologist James A. Clifton, a professor at the University of Wisconsin, published four comprehensive articles on the life of Billy Caldwell. Since that decade much has changed on the frontiers of locating information thanks to the Internet. It is this author’s belief that the following essay provides the most updated biographical description on Billy Caldwell, his Chicago River reserve, and bloodline yet written.

Unlike most famous persons, no known pictures, paintings, or sketches exist of Billy Caldwell. In fact, few descriptions of his personality or physical make up have survived. Early depictions often generalize him as being a “half breed,” “white man's friend,” etc., with no specific characteristics to form an accurate image of his genuine being. This lack of information, no doubt, left readers to form only stereotypical concepts of him within their minds.

As previously noted, from 1976-1978, James A. Clifton published several biographical articles on Billy Caldwell. What made them so progressive versus previous biographies was that for the first time an attempt to define Caldwell's personality had been made. As concluded through Clifton's research, Caldwell had an identity crisis. (3) To an extent, there is evidence to support this finding that Caldwell did indeed suffer from a case of identity crisis. Being that he came from two vastly different worlds (British and Indian) this likely would have occurred during certain stages of his life. Regardless, Caldwell was ultimately a man of opportunity. This truth is being supported by the documented evidences within these pages.

One of the only known sources of information that portrays Billy Caldwell's character comes from an interview conducted by Lyman Draper in 1866, with Caldwell's life long associate Alexander Robinson. Through Robinson's description, Caldwell was approximately six feet tall and weighed roughly 155 lbs. His leanness was an asset to him, as it allowed him to be very active (Robinson stated that Caldwell was a fleet runner). Further, Caldwell was a man who was highly regarded and popular among his peers. He was viewed to be a kind individual who never hurt any living creature without justification and always helped any Indian(s) in need.

Alexander Robinson stated that Billy Caldwell was better educated than most people, as he was very literate. He was multilingual and could speak English, French, and Pottawatomie fluently. Apparently, Caldwell was able to speak the Mohawk language at an early age, but his ability to carry it into adulthood faded. Regardless, his other mastered skills helped to increase his abilities for advancing himself when required. (4)

Billy Caldwell's life began on March 17, 1782 in a Mohawk refugee camp near Fort Niagara (Yorktown, NY). (5) Caldwell's mother, whose name is unknown, was the daughter of a Mohawk Chief named Rising Sun. Paternally, his father was Captain William Caldwell of the British Butler's Rangers. (6) Although very little is known about the role of Caldwell's mother in his life, much is known about his father's.

Following the end of the Revolutionary War in 1782, William Caldwell deserted his son and Indian wife at Fort Niagara and headed toward Detroit to establish a new life for himself. In regards to Billy Caldwell's formative years, little is known. What is clear is that his given name was originally Thomas. The first written account of this came from William Claus, who served with Billy's father during the war years. Claus, who composed a Mohawk song and dance, addressed it to “Little Master Caldwell” and began it with the phrase “Greeting to the small abandoned one...Good Tom.” Unfortunately, due to the absence of his father during these early years, this favored Caldwell family name did not last. Instead, the name by which his mother called him, Billy, took hold and stayed with him for the rest of his life. (7)

Aside from this, the only other identified events that Billy Caldwell experienced as a toddler included the following two: that he was a witness to his tribe's final defeat in the American Revolution, and a participant in his tribe's migration from New York to the Grand River north of Lake Ontario where their resettlement occurred. Because of the fact that he was living with his people at the time of these events, it would not have been possible for him to have been absent. (8)

In the year 1783, William Caldwell married Suzanne Baby. Through their years of marriage, they had five sons (William, James, Francis, Thomas, and John) and three daughters (Susan, Elizabeth, and Theresa) that lived to adulthood. All these children were raised according to Suzanne's Catholic faith (William was an Anglican), and received a Catholic education. (9)

At some point during their first four years of marriage, Suzanne became informed of William's first born, Billy, and insisted he be brought home to live with them. Suzanne’s desire to do so was based upon the Quebec inheritance laws which favored the oldest son regardless of ethnicity. However, no documentation exists to support this notion. Had this been true, the family would have had complete control over Billy’s thoughts and actions, as he would have been entitled to the Caldwell inheritance first. (10) Instead, what has been found through Lyman Draper’s interview of Alexander Robinson (1866), is that Suzanne was simply anxious to get Billy home so he could have been educated through the teachings of the Catholic faith. (11)

Moving forward, in 1787, William Caldwell went east to locate his son at Joseph Brant's encampment on the Grand River. After finding his son, the two of them along with Billy's mother and grandfather (Rising Sun) returned to the Caldwell farm in 1789. Following this journey, Billy's mother and grandfather returned to their people. Once returned, Billy's mother remarried an Indian husband at the Grand River encampment and had three daughters through that union. (12)

While living with his new family, Billy Caldwell was required to keep his name, while his

birth name of Thomas was given to a younger step brother. Regardless of his past, he was raised in the same manner as his step-brothers and sisters. This upbringing required him to attend school with them, through which he received a basic education. (13) Added, he was brought up to understand the beliefs of the Catholic faith, while also the values of the Loyalists to the British Empire. Furthermore, although Billy did labor on the Caldwell farm for a period of time, he did not find that type of labor appealing. (14)

In 1797, at age fifteen, Billy Caldwell migrated into American territory and began to learn the ropes of the fur trade business. (15) His first apprenticeship occurred at the southern end of Lake Michigan with Robert and Thomas Forsythe. (16) Added to this experience, he also worked along the Wabash River and what was to eventually become the northern part of Illinois. (17) During these early years of his new occupation, he began to develop a deep association with the trading partnership of Thomas Forsythe and Robert Kinzie. (18) As a result of this connection, by 1803, Caldwell had become promoted to the position of clerk at Forsythe and Kinzie's newly established trading post near Fort Dearborn. (19) Later during that year he went into the fur trade business for himself on the Wabash River. (20)

During the year of 1804 while trading near Niles, Michigan, Billy Caldwell met Alexander Robinson, who was to become his life long friend. (21) Also, around this time he married his first wife. As documented, her name was La Natte and she was the niece of Chief Mad Sturgeon of the powerful Pottawatomie Fish Clan, which reigned along the St. Joseph River. Sadly, La Natte died after giving birth to their first son. Following her passing, Caldwell took a second wife (her name is not known) who apparently was the daughter of Robert Forsythe and an Ojibwa woman. Once again though, his second wife died a year after their marriage in childbirth. It has been hypothesized that Caldwell may have had at least eight children in his lifetime, but this has never been confirmed. (22)

In 1807, Billy Caldwell first came into contact with Tecumseh. Tecumseh was a leader of the Shawnee, and an ally to the British cause during the War of 1812. (23) Although most historical sources agree that Caldwell did become Tecumseh's personal advisor and secretary, author James A. Clifton believed that no such relationship ever existed. (24) Despite this, what can be interpreted as truth is that Caldwell was somehow associated with Tecumseh until his death on October 5th, 1813, at the Battle of the Thames. (25)

From roughly 1808 until 1812, Billy Caldwell was placed in charge of supervising the operations of Kinzie and Forsythes’ trading post, located at Peoria. (26) In addition to this, he also continued to labor on other subordinate duties as requested by his employers. As a result of these experiences, not only was Caldwell able to establish himself as an influential trader, but also a middleman for merchants, fur traders, and Indians alike. The majority of his business transactions occurred around and near the vicinity of Lake Michigan. (27)

This lifestyle continued for Billy Caldwell until the spring of 1812 when several events befell and changed everything for him. It was during this season when John Kinzie stabbed and killed a Frenchman named John Lelime, who was an interpreter for the American garrison at Fort Dearborn. Apparently at an evening party for the officers, Lelime became inebriated and engaged Kinzie in a volatile argument. This verbal confrontation escalated to a degree of physical violence on the part of Lelime, which forced Kinzie to stab him fatally. In order to remedy this affair, Kinzie employed Caldwell to travel with a statement concerning the case to Governor William Henry Harrison at Vincennes. (28)

Interestingly, as recorded by Lyman Draper in 1866, while at Vincennes Governor Harrison tried to persuade Caldwell to join the American cause. Caldwell, however, declined this invitation by declaring that he was a “True Briton and wished to remain loyal to his government.” After having made this statement, a friend who was present whispered to Caldwell that war between Britain and America had been declared. In response, to save his own life, Caldwell ran off and escaped unharmed.

Following this event, Billy Caldwell made his way to Peoria. Since he was still in the employment of John Kinzie during this time, Caldwell completed several transactions at the Peoria trading post before heading back to Fort Dearborn. This is supported by his signature in the trading post’s ledger on July 15th. (29)

One area of uncertainty that has been debated across writings has been the role Billy Caldwell played during and after the Fort Dearborn Massacre. This discrepancy having resulted from the fact that no sound evidence has been uncovered to support his whereabouts. Of all accounts, the one that has been referred to most often is Mrs. John H. Kinzie's, Wau-Bun: The Early Day in the Northwest (1856). As written in this rendering, Caldwell was not present during the massacre. He did, however, arrive on August 16th one day after it occurred in time to save the Kinzies from their Indian captors. (30) As more specifically described through her own words:

From Ouilmette's house to the party of Indians proceeded to the dwelling of Mr. Kinzie. They entered the parlor in which the family was assembled with their faithful protectors and seated themselves upon the floor in silence. Black Partridge perceived from theirmoody and revengeful looks what was passing in their minds, but he dared not remonstrate with them. He only observed in a low tone to Waubansee

“We have endeavored to save our friends, but it is in vain-nothing will save them now.”

At this moment a friendly whoop was heard from a party of newcomers on the opposite bank of the river. Black Partridge sprang to meet their leader, as the canoes in which they had hastily embarked touched the bank near the house.

“Who are you?” demanded he. “A man. Who are you?”

“A man like yourself. But tell me who you are, “-meaning, tell me your

disposition, and which side you are for.” “I am Sau-ga-nash!”

“Then make all speed to the house-your friend is in danger, and you alone can save him.”

Billy Caldwell for it was he, entered the parlor with a calm step, and without a trace of agitation in his manner. He deliberately took off his accouterments and placed them with his rifle behind the door, then saluted the hostile savages.

“How now my friends! A good day to you. I was told there were enemies here, but I am glad to find only friends. Why have you blackened your faces? Is it that you are mourning for our friends? Is it that you are mourning for the friends you have lost in battle?” (Purposely misunderstanding this token of evil designs)

“Or is it that you are fasting? If so, ask our friend here, and he will give you to eat. He is the Indians friend, and never yet refused them what they had need of.”

Thus taken by surprise, the savages were ashamed to acknowledge their bloody purpose. They therefore said modestly that they came to beg of their friends some white cotton in which to wrap their dead before interring them. This was given to them, with some other presents, and they took their departure peaceably from the premises. (31)

Speculatively, Billy Caldwell's ability to journey from Peoria to Fort Dearborn in a month's time (July 15th to August 16th) could have been accomplished via river routes and portages. Traveling north on the Illinois and Des Plains Rivers, east over the Chicago Portage to the south branch of the Chicago River, and north to Kinzie's residence would have been roughly only 160 miles. (32) As a result, it can be deducted that there is validity to Mrs. Kinzie's story as to Caldwell being in the area following the massacre. However, what historically has made the portrayal of this event fictionalized in many readers‘ eyes is her use of romanticized language.As believed by author James A. Clifton, had this event truthfully occurred it would have been out of Caldwell's loyalty to his British comrads, and not the American cause. (33)

Unfortunately, the whereabouts of Billy Caldwell may never have a grounded answer. However, to rule out the idea that his participation may have been different than that of the Wau Bun story could lead to a stereotyped answer. Illustrating this, in 1903, an anthropologist named Charles Augustus Dilg conducted a series of rare interviews with Mary Robinson, who was the last living child of Chief Alexander Robinson. Dilg himself, was conducting these interviews in an attempt to document the life of Robinson. Unfortunately, he died in 1904 before any of his research could be published. (34)

As revealed through Mary Robinson's interviews, her father religiously retold the events surrounding the Fort Dearborn Massacre. While reliving these memories, Robinson would often exclaim out loud, “If it hadn't been for that Caldwell all this thing wouldn't have happened. Confound him and that Tecumseh anyhow!” (35) As further disclosed , Billy Caldwell came to Chicago as a runner for Tecumseh. While in the region, he was known for telling his stories of British victories to the Indians, which warped and enflamed their minds. These stories eventually helped to fuel the whole massacre. After the massacre had occurred, Caldwell not only basked in the American’s defeat, but also the burning of Fort Dearborn. As stated by Mary, “Billy Caldwell was a British Officer who hated the Americans.” (36)

In regards to Alexander Robinson's story, the following facts were conveyed to Mary Robinson by him. At the time of the final showdown, Robinson was guarding the settlers' cabins located on the north side of the river. The act of him protecting Ouilmette and Kinzies' homes and occupants from the murdering Indians was in fact the same scenario portrayed in Mrs. Kinizie's Wau Bun version. According to Robinson, at the time he was guarding the cabins Waubansia, Winnemace, Chief Joseph Bertrand, and a well known river trader were all with him. For years following the massacre, both Robinson and Waubansia grieved over the wrong committed against them when Caldwell took credit for what they had done. (37) As learned by Charles Dilg through his interviews with Mary Robinson, Caldwell was nowhere near the cabins on the north side of the river during or after the massacre had been waged. Instead, he was present at the massacre fighting beside his comrades Shaubena and Tecumseh against the Americans. (38)

Further, as explained by Charles Dilg, neither Alexander Robinson nor Black Partridge were ever interviewed on the details of the Fort Dearborn Massacre. The reason why this was thought to be is because it would have spoiled Mrs. Kinzie’s tale. (39) Even though in 1866 Alexander Robinson stated to Lyman Draper that Billy Caldwell showed up late to save the Kinzies, that was ten years after Wau Bun had been published. Added, it was never described in Draper's notes what exactly Robinson was referring to (Mrs. Kinzie's Wau Bun version, etc.). (40) To complicate matters, aside from Robinson’s language barrier, in 1866 he was also suffering from memory loss due to his advancing age, which could have affected his response to Draper. (41)

Interestingly enough, within the book entitled Chicago and the Old Northwest (1913), author Milo Milton Quaife critiqued Charles Dilg's techniques of obtaining information from Mary Robinson as being useless and unscientific. (42) Whether true or not, Dilg’s information did provide another theory to Billy Caldwell’s involvement with the Fort Dearborn Massacre. Thus, to insinuate that any one historical rendering of Caldwell’s role is an absolute truth may not be just.

NEXT Time: Billy Caldwell: An Updated History, Part 2

Photo Credits:

Top, left: "Billy Caldwell on the Plains," American Legion Billy Caldwell Post 806

Henry Robbins and the Chicago Board of Trade

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Mon, 09 May 2011 12:12:22 PDT

By Joe Mathewson

The Chicago Board of Trade had a weak case but an astute lawyer. Henry S. Robbins, however, faced a dilemma.

The longtime lawyer for the Chicago Board of Trade, who had successfully represented it before the U.S. Supreme Court, opposed a new rule adopted by his client. He saw it as illegal price-fixing under the Sherman Antitrust Act of 1890.

The Board of Trade, the dominant commodities exchange, had decided that its members’ purchases of grain from country dealers after the close of an afternoon trading period must be at the day’s closing bid price. No deviation permitted until the opening of the next day’s public trading. In a letter to the Board prior to its decision, Robbins had opined that “this part of the rule is liable to be adjudged an illegal restraint upon free competitive bidding.”

It was 1910. Though slow to act, the government three years later brought suit against the Board of Trade, alleging, as Robbins had feared, unlawful price-fixing. Could he defend the rule he considered illegal?

Henry Robbins was a Chicago heavyweight. His law partners were a former mayor and U.S. senator [Washburn, Trumbull, & Robbins]. He exposed bribes paid to Wabash Avenue property owners by the company proposing to build an elevated rail track over Wabash and around downtown. In another case he fought transit tycoon Charles T. Yerkes. He led the Illinois Democrats’ “hard money” opposition to William Jennings Bryan’s “free silver” movement in the 1890s. When President Woodrow Wilson spoke in Chicago, Robbins was on the platform, along with Senator J. Hamilton Lewis, Mayor William “Big Bill” Thompson, Julius Rosenwald of Sears, Roebuck and civic leader Charles H. Wacker. Robbins’ socially-prominent wife was president of the American Fund for the French Wounded during World War I.

But Henry Robbins always gave his highest priority to the Board of Trade, that quintessential Chicago institution. In 1905 he won an important victory for the exchange at the U. S. Supreme Court, which held that the Board had a property right in its grains quotations and thus could prevent unaffiliated brokers from using them in their business.

Despite their happy relationship, Robbins didn’t hesitate to take issue with his distinguished client and its loud-mouthed members. When they voted to change the terms of a wheat futures contract that was already in use, Robbins publicly rebuked them. In a notice posted at the Board of Trade, Robbins asserted that the BOT could not lawfully alter an existing contract.

Now he again questioned the legality of a board decision, to set after-trading prices. But he did what a good lawyer should do: make the best case possible for his client. He defended the Board of Trade in the U.S. District Court in Chicago. Uncharacteristically, he lost.

But Robbins carried on with his uphill task, taking the case to the U.S. Supreme Court. There were giants up there: Chief Justice Edward Douglass White, William Rufus Day, Willis Van Devanter, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Louis Brandeis.

Shrewdly, Robbins sought to shift the perception of the disputed rule. He asserted that it was just a normal method of promoting the business of the Board of Trade and the welfare of its members. It was a curious argument under the consumer-oriented Antitrust Act.

Chicago Tribune, April 28, 1932

But it worked. Writing for a unanimous court in 1918, Justice Brandeis minimized the market impact of the rule, saying it applied “only to a small part of the grain shipped from day to day to Chicago” and “only during a small part of the business day.” He noted that all exchanges place limits on trading hours and declared such restrictions salutary because “they tend to shorten the working day, or at least, limit the period of most exacting activity.”

Years later antitrust scholar Robert Bork of Yale commented that “Brandeis clearly was introducing considerations of producer welfare into the law as a policy competitive with consumer welfare. . . Brandeis was not so much a believer in competition as a believer in safety and smallness in the economic world.”

Be that as it may, Brandeis did more than exonerate the Board of Trade. He fashioned a memorable statement of the Court’s Rule of Reason, adopted and applied a few years before in bigger antitrust cases, notably the government’s successful effort to break up Standard Oil. The purpose of the rule was to soften the Sherman Act’s prohibition of business practices tending to restrain competition, in other words, to allow some “reasonable” degree of restraint.

Here’s how Brandeis put it, in part:

“The true test of legality is whether the restraint imposed is such as merely regulates and perhaps thereby promotes competition or whether it is such as may suppress or even destroy competition. . . The history of the restraint, the evil believed to exist, the reason for adopting the particular remedy, the purpose or end sought to be attained, are all relevant facts.”

These words still resonate today. In an important 2010 decision, the Supreme Court cited the Board of Trade case in overturning a lower court ruling for the National Football League, which had severely hurt the sports-cap business of American Needle Inc. of suburban Chicago when it gave an exclusive contract to Reebok International Inc.

The persuasion of Henry S. Robbins, the lawyer who doubted his client’s case but won it anyway, lives on.

Joe Mathewson teaches media law at Northwestern University’s Medill School. He is the author of “The Supreme Court and the Press: The Indispensable Conflict” in the Northwestern University Press series “Visions of the American Press” edited by David Abrahamson.

Biography of Henry Spencer Robbins:

(from The Book of Chicagoans, 1911)

ROBBINS, Henry Spencer, lawyer; born East Stoughton, Mass., Feb. 5, 1853; son John V. and Anastasia (Ford) Robbins; grad. Yale, 1 874 (A.B., 1895); LL.B., Univ. of Wis., 1874; admitted to bar of Wis., 1874; married Dec. 12, 1883, Fanny F., daughter of H. Mooris Johnson, of Chicago: 4 children: Marjorie J., Dorothy F., Isabelle M., Frances J. Practiced law in New York City, 1874-6; came to Chicago, 1876, and became partner with Hempstead Washburne, until 1883, when Senator Lyman Trumbull joined the firm which became Trumbull, Washburne &Robbins until Mr. Washburne was elected mayor of Chicago; now in practice alone. Counsel for Chicago Board of Trade. Mem. Am. Bar Assn. Clubs: Chicago, Iroquois, Onwentsia, University. Summer Residence: Lake Forest, 111. Residence: Virginia Hotel. Office: Home Ins. Bldg. [Died: 1932]

Recommended reading:

The Supreme Court and the Press: The Indispensable Conflict by Joe Mathewson

Origin, Growth and Usefulness of The Chicago Board of Trade (1885)
The Chicago Board of Trade: What it is and What it Does (1921)

Photo credit:

Chicago Board of Trade postcard (1909): Old Chicago in Vintage Postcards, Pat Sabin

On Chicago: What's in a Name

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 06:48:00 PDT

"Good Americans are said to go to Paris when they die; but it appears to depend upon whether they have been to Chicago first. I like the pleasant egotism of its citizens. All towns are not fortunate in their names. The syllables in New York come together like a nut-cracker, and Boston is quite a mouthful, almost beyond management; but Chicago is the most musical, full-spoken name a great city ever bore. A place with such a name could not be poor or mean."

--George Jacob Holyoake

Among the Americans (1881)

Nathan Leopold was my Father's Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 09:56:24 PDT

George Barker could have ended up just another punk kid who turned to crime on the grimy streets of Chicago during the Depression. But, he didn't. Barker was smart, well-read, articulate and he wrote about his life behind bars and the people he met there. The Journal is proud to present a portion of Barker's story.

By Stan Barker

My father, George Barker, was born in Chicago one hundred years ago in 1911. Smart, cocky, rebellious, he grew up a wild teenager in Lakeview and Uptown in the Roaring Twenties. He and his friends began committing petty burglaries– grocery stores, barber shops– for kicks. He got caught at age 17 and was sent to the Reformatory at Pontiac, IL for 2 years.

When he got out he tried to go straight. He got a job. He met a girl. But it was the Depression now, and he lost his job. Then the father of his girl found out about his record, and wouldn’t let her see him any more. My dad became depressed and thought, “What’s the use?” One night he and an acquaintance burglarized another grocery store. There was no money so they took two cartons of cigarettes, which cost then $1.25 each. They got caught.

Thomas J. Courtney was the State’s Attorney then. Courtney was ambitious. He wanted to be Mayor. He wanted to be Governor. He needed to build a record of successful convictions. One way he did it was through heavy use of the “Hab” Act. The Illinois Habitual Criminal Act stated that if you were convicted a second time of the same offense, you could be given the maximum sentence for that offense. So, for two cartons of cigarettes-- $2.50– my father was given the maximum sentence for burglary...

Life in prison. With no hope for parole.

Just 22, he was sent to Joliet/Stateville, thrown in with murderers, psychopaths and sadistic guards. He learned to survive by recognizing and accepting each man for who-- and what– he was.

While incarcerated, he kept a written record of life in Joliet/Stateville, from the 1930s to the 1950s– the brutal, inhumane conditions of the time, the warden who ruled with an iron fist, the men– good and bad– who were his brothers behind bars. These writings form a historical record, never before published. Only parts of his manuscript still survive. I have filled in the missing pieces and am currently looking for a publisher for My Father’s Story.

My father was in the Old Prison on Collins Street in Joliet when Richard Loeb was murdered [1936] in the new prison, Stateville, by fellow inmate James Day. My father wrote:

I was in the Hole in the Old Prison when they brought over Jimmy Day. Comments had already seeped into Solitary that some kind of blow-up had occurred at the New Joint. Day was afraid, shaking and mumbling to himself. He wanted to whisper about it but was evasive on the details. I got out of the Hole the next morning. Back at work, the screw on duty, knowing I’d been in Solitary with Day, quietly said to me, “They’ll never convict him; this town hates Loeb and Leopold.”

It was Johnny Dorf, “Little Duke”, who sparked my curiosity about what really happened. Johnny had been over to the New Prison a month before, and having associated with Dick and Nate at Jewish holidays he knew a bit of the inside details. He said Loeb made the mistake of telling Day he was an intellectual equal. Though records belied this– Loeb had access to Day’s psychiatric and punishment reports from the Boy’s School at St. Charles– it was what he wanted Day to think. Instead of saying “I’ll take care of you,” he pulled the equality pitch. Loeb liked to play cat and mouse. It was not unlike the game he had played with the police before they knew who killed Bobby Franks.

What began as “Good morning, Dick”, and “Hi, Jimmy”, became “Good morning, Dick”... and no answer. The love affair was over and a forlorn Jimmy didn’t know where to turn.

That’s where fellow inmate George Bliss came in. His agitation simmered a long time. Strangely, it wasn’t Loeb that Bliss hated as much as he hated Leopold, nicknaming him “The Leper” and sneering at Nate’s IQ. It was a personality clash that smoldered a long time. Bliss adroitly fed the flames.

Official reports say Jimmy walked into the shower room where Loeb, lathered up, was waiting. Loeb is said to have pulled a razor and swung on Jimmy, who wrestled the razor away from Loeb and slashed him to death.

That was Jimmy Day’s defense... an innocent young man, protecting his virginity! So they acquitted Day and that wound up the case...Or did it? Think this over...

Loeb was about 5 foot 9 inches tall, athletic, exercised daily, and could box. Day was about 5'6", frail and could not box. Now, a 5'6", skinny kid walks in on a man 5' 9", waiting with a razor in his hand. The taller, more athletic man lunges with the razor; the skinny, shorter kid takes it away without a cut on himself and kills his attacker!

Pictures of Loeb after death went to the prison Bureau of Identification; I saw them when I worked there in later years. Noticeable were the slashes... 58 of them!

Who first said, “Hell hath no fury...”?

The murder of Dick Loeb brought on another round of ‘reforms’ at the old and new prisons. Rules were changed. Prisoners were shifted from one place to the other.

In 1938, four years into his sentence, my dad was transferred from the Old Joint to the new prison, Stateville, four miles away.
One of the friends he made there, a cellmate, was Joe Majczek, the wrongly-convicted man whose story became the Jimmy Stewart film Call Northside 777. Another was the infamous Nathan Leopold.

From My Father’s Story:

When he first told me this, I couldn’t understand it. How could my dad have been friends with one of the most notorious murderers of the Twentieth Century... one of the”thrill killers” of a 14 year old boy? My dad tried to explain it to me.

In prison,” he said, “you learn to accept people for the way they are ‘now’, in the present. Not for what they did in the past. Everyone in prison did something wrong in their past, sometimes something horrible. The question becomes: Is he an okay guy now? Nate was.”

My father believed Leopold when he said that he, at least, never intended to murder Bobby Franks. “Nate always said the plan was to just kidnap him . He was driving the car while Loeb was in the backseat with the boy. According to Nate, Loeb suddenly decided to kill Bobby Franks, and did it before Nate could do anything to stop him.

“From that point on, Nate was an accomplice, as guilty of the murder as Loeb. Loeb was the dominant personality of the two, and had always bossed Nate around. Nate came into his own as a person in the joint after Loeb was killed.”

Why did my dad befriend Nathan Leopold? The main reason was intelligence. My father had always been intellectual. Now he was stuck in a world where the majority of men-- cons and screws alike-- were “dese, dems, and dohs”. He hungered for intelligent conversation, mental stimulation... a life of the mind that could lift him beyond the limitations of his life behind bars. Leopold had scored between 205 and 210 on the Army Alpha IQ Tests. My father had scored 192. It was water seeking its own level.

They shared a love of books, and especially, languages. Leopold taught school at Stateville. My dad did not teach or attend but he and Leopold discussed books and ideas and studied languages together.

The terrible thrill killer may well have saved my father’s life by giving him an mental equal to relate to in the nightmare world of prison.

Leopold tried to help my dad get his manuscript published. From My Father's Story:

One day early in 1943, my dad was at his job when Father [Eligius] Weir (Stateville’s Catholic chaplain, a friend to both my dad and Leopold) walked in along with a well-tanned man in a expensive suit. Weir came over to my dad and said, “George, I want you to meet someone. This is Bryan Foy, from Twentieth Century Fox Studios in Hollywood.”

My father knew, of course, who Foy was. The son of vaudeville legend Eddie Foy, as a child Bryan Foy and his brothers and sisters had made up the famous “Seven Little Foys” musical comedy act. He went on to become a movie producer, first at Warner Bros., now at Fox. The prison had been buzzing for some time with the news that Foy was making a new picture, “Roger Touhy, Gangster,” [released 1944] based on the Touhy-Banghart escape, and had come to Stateville to interview Touhy and scout locations. But he had something else on his mind as he shook my dad’s hand.

“I’ve been talking with Father Weir,” said Foy, “and earlier I spoke with Nathan Leopold. Both of them told me you’ve written quite a prison book. I’d like to read it. Maybe we can do something with it.”

As my father recalled it all:

Before World War II, newspapers and radio liked to depict us inmates as simians of the lowest order. As an angry young man, I wrote a book in dissent. Doing that, of course, was an infraction of the rules. So from the outset, caution was priority. The shadow of the Hole loomed over every line, every page.

“Meatball” [the prisoners’ nickname for Warden Joseph Ragen] often boasted, “When three convicts talk together, two of them are mine.” His fifth column of rats functioned well, but what he forgot was– we had the third man! In a community of several thousand men, that gave us a working minority. Beating “Meatball’s” system was easy if one was careful.

Notes were made in triplicate in case of discovery or loss. They were hidden throughout the prison in office files, stock rooms and tool cribs, library shelves and general store canisters, power house recesses, chapel offices, the soap factory, even the office for the Hole. [A further precaution– copies were written in six different languages my father knew.]

Doctor Donald Clemmer, the prison psychologist, read it and believed in its message. He was a bit of a stormy character himself, later becoming a controversial Director of Federal Corrections in Washington, D.C. (In talks and papers he referred to me as a “Jean Valjean of America”.) He smuggled the manuscript out for me and got it to my father.

Bryan Foy, studio executive who came to the prison to make a movie about Roger Touhy, learned about the book, contacted my father, and took the manuscript back to Hollywood for critique. Hedda Hopper, Sid Skolsky and Nate Gross, entertainment reporters of the time, all mentioned it in their columns...

Hedda Hopper was the queen of Hollywood columnists in those days, syndicated in newspapers all over the country. My father had told me many times that she had written about him, but it wasn’t until I started work on this book that I found the actual column:

“LOOKING AT HOLLYWOOD“ By Hedda Hopper
“Hollywood, Cal., Feb. 26 [1943]– When Producer Brynie Foy went to interview Roger Touhy about his life story and take some pictures at Joliet prison, he found Touhy in the hospital, after 16 days in solitary confinement (but they’re no longer solitary– it’s two men to a cell.) While there, Brynie saw Leopold, of the Loeb and Leopold case, who asked that his name be taken off the cell when it was photographed. Leopold got bored being a trusty in the library, so was washing windows.
“Brynie was handed 17 different stories written by inmates. One he thinks is a magnificent yarn, called ‘Lords of the Lamps’, written by William Barker [sic], age 31, who’s already served 11 years. Barker has learned eight languages at Joliet. He’s starting now on Japanese. The book’s so good Foy is trying to have it published for him.”

Although my dad told me many times about Hopper’s column, he never mentioned that she got his name wrong. I imagine the mistake occurred because his manuscript had my grandfather Will’s name and return address on it– naturally, my father didn’t want a publisher writing directly to him at Stateville, where “Meatball’s” censors would open and read the letter first. Sadly though, Foy was unable to get the book published or filmed. As my dad wrote:

It wasn’t the blood and guts type of book that would have made the typical prison film. It was too philosophical and too pedantic... too anxious to show the world that we convicts were not all morons. In that day, that’s not what producers or publishers were looking for. The rejection letter from one New York literary agent gave all of us cons a good laugh. His advice? “Why don’t you write on a subject you know?”

“Lords of the Lamps” was the original title of my dad’s book. What it referred to– something from the Bible? The Arabian Nights?– I don’t know. After its initial rejection my father decided to rework it, and in our talks, he always referred to it by the second working title he gave it, “Compassion, Compression, Compatriot.” As I came to understand more about my dad, I found it a very apt title, reflecting the main sentiment he learned behind bars (Compassion), the terrible restriction of freedom he faced (Compression), and the way he came to accept his fellow inmates, despite whatever they had done, as men the same as him (Compatriots). Again, though... hardly the typical ‘Bang Bang’ crime story title.

The manuscript itself went through quite a lot over the years... it was typed and retyped, hidden and smuggled, and later, moved with our family from house to house, and from Chicago to downstate Illinois and back again, at least twice. Unfortunately– but not surprisingly, given all that– parts of it were lost over the years. The fragments that are left are what I’m using here.

When America entered World War II, my father found a possible way to get out of prison. Again, Nate Leopold was part of the story:

September, 1944:

Nate Leopold was working in the prison hospital when Warden Ragen came in with a visitor. He introduced the man as Dr. Alf S. Alving of the University of Chicago Medical School. Ragen told Leopold and the other six inmates working at the Hospital to step into the Hospital office, that Dr. Alving wanted to speak to them.

Alving told the inmates that the U.S. government needed human ‘guinea pigs’ to test new, experimental drugs being developed to try and cure malaria. Malaria was “the number-one medical problem of the war in the Pacific.” An estimated 85% of our forces there were coming down with the disease. According to the doctor, we were losing “more men to malaria than to enemy bullets.”

The government felt that the prisoners at Stateville might be willing to volunteer to be infected with malaria and test the as-yet untried drugs. Alving asked the inmate hospital workers whether they thought enough men would volunteer.

Leopold asked, “How many will you need?” Alving said perhaps as many as two hundred. Leopold thought a moment, then said, “You’ll get two or three times that many.”

Leopold told my dad about the project when he got off work that day. The drugs might prove to be toxic– perhaps fatally so. And there were no promises of anything in return for volunteering. But Leopold remembered reading about Dr. Walter Reed and the volunteers in the fight against yellow fever. The nation had considered them heroes. He thought this new project might change public opinion about convicts.

He told my father, “George– if they ever shorten our sentences, it could just be for this.”

Of course, there was the chance they might die instead... But if they didn’t volunteer, with Life sentences they were sure to die in prison anyway.

Nearly five hundred inmates volunteered the day the project was announced, my dad and Leopold among them. Every man was tested to make sure he was in good health, physically fit to be subjected to the drugs. Forty men were selected to be the first subjects. To my dad’s disappointment, he was not part of that first group. Leopold wasn’t either, but he was working in the hospital with the doctors from the University of Chicago and the Army medical corps. “Be patient, George,” he counseled my father. “You’ll get your chance.”

Originally, the project was only intended to test the toxicity of the new drugs. But by March, 1945, the scope of the experiments expanded. The entire third floor of the prison hospital was given over to the project. Laboratories were set up. Army and University personnel increased... and now included women– nurses and lab technicians.

( Nate Leopold noted: “Many of the fellows had not been that close to a woman for years, and everybody felt a little shy and strange. But the girls themselves soon put everybody at ease. They were so genuinely friendly, while at the same time keeping their dignity...” Yet, even so... as part of the program, each volunteer’s blood pressure was tested every week. “The first week the nurses were present, everyone’s blood pressure rose... (an average) twenty points.”)

With the laboratories installed and operational, the doctors could now begin the most dangerous part of the project– actually infecting the inmates with malaria, to test how well the new drugs worked.

April 1945:

My dad was chosen for the second group of test subjects, the 45th man in the group to be bitten and infected with malaria. The group he was in was to test a family of drugs known as 8-amino quinolines. A previously tested drug of this type had proved to be highly toxic, causing violent side reactions. The new versions tested now on my dad and the other volunteers would be unpredictable, but no less dangerous.

My father soon was suffering the usual symptoms of malaria. Chills that made his body shake and his teeth chatter uncontrollably. Then the opposite– so hot he was burning up, drenching his hospital bed with his sweat despite applications of ice packs. Some men had it so bad they were placed in tubs of ice. Seeing this, my dad couldn’t help but think about the mustard gas victims of the last war, those poor bastards he’d seen up in Canada as a boy, submerged in tubs of water to ease the burning of their skin...

He had a fever for thirty days, with temperatures of 106. That wasn’t that bad. Some men hit 108. He was racked with blinding headaches, so severe they felt like your head was going to split in two. When the headaches subsided, they left him dazed, not quite all there, not sure if he was dreaming or awake.

A month after he was released from the hospital, he had a relapse. He expected it– the doctors had warned him he could be in for as many as four relapses. This time the doctors needed volunteers to carry the strain of malaria. It meant going through the fever without any drugs for 14 days, so mosquitoes could bite him, feed on him, and get the malarial strain. My dad volunteered, one of 4 or 5 men at Stateville to carry the strain. He wrote:

Conway was doubled up over a pillow; it was his sixth day with crystallized urine. Most of us were either shivering under blankets in summer heat or running a temp’ of 106 degrees or better.

Last night the Army nurses had to fight with “Red” Cohen to get him into a tub filled with ice cubes. It wasn’t a prolonged fight... “Red”, like most of us, was susceptible to women. The thing was, despite his temp’ of 108.2, he had just bid seven no trump in Bridge on his partner’s Smith bid. To hell with the fever... four cartons of smokes (prison “money”) were riding on the game!

That night Nielsen went into a coma. Who was next was an unanswerable question. Some of the guys turned blue for a while from the untested drugs... but pulled through.

In those early days of volunteerism, while the War was still going on, the men kidded and scoffed and made light of the deal but each man was proud of what he was doing. No cure was yet known; no reward was promised, but down deep inside we gambled on maybe...

Leopold said to me, “George, if ever it can happen, this is it.” So... we bet our lives.

The gamble paid off. For his participation in the medical experiments, and working with Leopold on measuring other subjects’ blood counts, Governor Dwight Green commuted my father’s sentence to 45 years. This made him eligible for a parole, which he received in 1949.

He met the girl who would become my mother, a professional musician who played nightclubs in the Loop and the Chicken Basket in Willowbrook on Route 66. They fell in love, and made plans to marry.

Then, for sneaking into Chicago to see her, the State threw my father back into prison for violation of parole. This time he fought back in court. And after serving twenty years for two cartons of cigarettes, my father won a complete release from prison.

(Above: Happier times. George Barker and his wife, Jeannette, in 1953.)

One month after his release, my father and mother were married. In November 1956, I was born. My dad wanted his friend Nate, still in prison, to be my godfather, but Leopold told him,

“I’m too notorious, George. You don’t want to saddle the boy with the ‘thrill-killer’ for a godfather.”

[Nathan Leopold was released from prison in 1958. He died in Puerto Rico in 1971]

STAN BARKER is a former Contributing Editor for The Artist’s Magazine, sister publication to Writer’s Digest, and has written for Chicago History Magazine and The Encyclopedia of Chicago.He may be contacted via email: StanBrkr at aol dot com

Copyright 2011 Stan Barker; no portion of this article may be reprinted without the express permission of the author.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: My dad is not mentioned in Leopold’s book, Life Plus 99 Years, because— according to my father– when the book was being published and Leopold was being paroled in 1958, he told my dad, “You have a family and a business now. You don’t need me dredging up your past.” However proof of my father’s friendship with Nathan Leopold– their studying languages together and working on measuring the malaria subjects’ blood counts– can be found in Parole Board documents in my father’s file.

Recommended reading:

Leopoldandloab.com

"Nathan Leopold and Chicago Criminology" by Laurel Duchowny

Photo credits:

George Barker, Chicago Tribune, Feb. 25, 1929
Photo of James Day: TruTV.com
"Roger Touhy: Last of the Gangsters" poster: Tuohy's of the World
Nathan Leopold (Wikipedia)
George Barker and his wife, Jeannette photo provided by the author

The Strange Case of Leopold and Loeb: Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 06:37:00 PDT

By Peter J. Spalding

When Clarence Darrow introduced himself to Nathan Leopold, Jr., and Richard Loeb, they weren't the least bit impressed.

Both boys were on trial for their lives, and all the Chicago papers had called for them to be hanged. Leopold and Loeb needed the best lawyer they could find, but the one who stood before them was a frumpy old man.

"My first impression was horror," Leopold later wrote. "For on the other side of the bars stood one of the least prepossessing, one of the least impressive-looking human beings I have ever seen. The day was warm, and Mr. Darrow was wearing a light seer-sucker jacket. Nothing wrong with that, surely. Only this one looked as if he had slept in it. His shirt was wrinkled, too, and he must have had eggs for breakfast that morning. I could see vestiges. Or perhaps he hadn't changed shirts since the day before. His tie was askew.... He looked for all the world like an innocent hayseed, a bumpkin who might have difficulty finding his way around the city. Could this be the renowned Darrow (for I had heard much of his reputation in the last twenty-four hours)?"

Actually, Darrow had been building his reputation for decades. His résumé was practically a history of late-19th-century Chicago, and he had a knack for taking on unpopular causes. Among other things, he had helped secure pardons for three accused Haymarket bombers. He had represented assassin Eugene Prendergast after the shooting of Mayor Carter Harrison. He had also defended labor leader Eugene Debs against charges stemming from the Pullman Strike.

Darrow had also gotten his share of hard knocks. The low point had come in Los Angeles in 1911. Darrow had represented two labor organizers accused of bombing the anti-union Los Angeles Times, which had left 21 people dead. Union leaders were convinced the suspects had been framed, and they saw Darrow as their savior. But before the case got to trial, Darrow realized that his clients had in fact done it. He knew he had no chance of winning, so he convinced the defendants to plead guilty, which the labor movement saw as a betrayal. On top of that, one of Darrow's assistants was caught trying to bribe a juror, which nearly got Darrow disbarred. By the time it was over, organized labor had lost all credibility in L.A., and Darrow had agreed to stop practicing law in California.

Leopold and Loeb would be his biggest case to date. He'd need to defend an indefensible killing; he'd need to confront overwhelming evidence; and he'd need to win over a furious public. And he'd need to do it all in the glare of the national spotlight.

"I felt that I would get a fair fee if I went into the case, but money never influenced my stand one way or another," Darrow wrote in his autobiography. "I knew of no good reason for refusing, but I was sixty-seven years old, and very weary.... I went in, to do what I could for sanity and humanity against the wave of hatred and malice that, as ever, was masquerading under its usual nom de plume: 'Justice.'"

Darrow quickly ruled out one angle of attack. An insanity defense was the most obvious way to go, but Darrow knew it wouldn't work. His clients were so smart and articulate that they wouldn't come across as lunatics in the usual sense.

"I'm not insane, and I'm not going to be made to appear insane," Leopold told the Chicago Herald and Examiner. "I'm sane-- as sane as you are."

Darrow decided to try an untested idea. No matter what his clients said, the fact remained that their actions made no sense. They had killed a teenaged kid in cold blood, and as their attorney, Darrow had to offer some kind of explanation. So he hired a panel of psychologists.

The prosecution had already hired the best analysts in Chicago, but they hadn't shed any light on what had happened. These doctors had followed the conventional wisdom of the time, which was based on 19th-century thinking. They assumed that a patient's mental health was driven by his physical health, and physically speaking, the boys' medical history was routine. Leopold had a calcified pineal gland, but that was thought to be a vestigial organ, and his condition was common in adults anyway. Loeb's voice had changed later than most, and he'd been in a car accident at the age of 15. None of that could explain-- much less justify-- what they'd done.

Darrow took a completely different tack. He had no use for traditional psychologists; he went for the avant-garde instead. He cast a nationwide net, bringing in the most distinguished physicians from New York, Washington, and Boston. Darrow hired endocrinologists-- who had just started to theorize that chemical imbalances could affect behavior-- and he sought out believers in the ideas of Sigmund Freud. All of these theories were very new, and many Americans actively dismissed them. But Darrow knew they would be key to his case.

The boys seemed to treat it all as a joke. Loeb hardly cooperated, and Leopold openly challenged his doctors. "I suppose the function of all this is to prolong my life as something worthwhile," Leopold said in one session. "I can’t quite correlate that with my philosophy, but... my folks have decided on all this. Of course I am desperately trying to co-operate with them. As for me, I think this medical ‘Psychiatric’ stuff is all horseshit. Now, I don’t know what it’s all about, you’ve not let me in on it, but if you insist on a lumbar puncture you must have good reasons, which you think out-weigh the discomfort for me."

But as the doctors dug deeper, they found that the boys were a psychologist's catnip. Every piece of the story seemed to play into Freud's theories.

Leopold, for example, had developed a serious hangup over his mother's death. Her doctors had told her to stop having kids after her third son, but she'd gotten pregnant with Leopold-- her fourth-- and her body had never recovered. She was an invalid from there on out, until she died of nephritis when Leopold was 15. Leopold blamed himself, saying "my presence is the reason for her absence." He hadn't had a healthy relationship with a woman since.

Loeb's mother, like most society ladies, had had nannies take care of her kids. Because of that, Loeb's real mother figure was his governess Emily Struthers. She was the one who'd pushed him so hard in school, to the point where he'd gotten into college at age 13. That had come at the expense of a normal childhood, since he'd rarely made real friends or played with other kids. "I always obeyed her to the minute-- second," Loeb said. "Her word was law. To myself I would think certain things were not as they should be. I would brood some. To get by her I formed the habit of lying.... When she left I sort of broke loose."

Both boys also had active fantasy lives, and they incorporated each other into their dreams. Loeb imagined himself to be a famous "master criminal." Leopold's fantasies revolved around a "king and a slave." Sometimes he saw himself in the role of the king, but usually Loeb was the king with Leopold as the slave.

The boys' obsessions-- especially with each other-- seemed to know no bounds. Even years later, Leopold seemed downright smitten with Loeb. "Everybody went for the guy," he wrote in his autobiography, "and rightly so. There wasn't a sunnier, pleasanter, more likable fellow in the world. Why, I thought more of Dick than of all the rest of my friends put together. His charm was magnetic-- maybe mesmeric is the better word. He could charm anybody he had a mind to.... But then there was that other side to him. In the crime, for instance, he didn't have a single scruple of any kind. He wasn't immoral; he was just plain amoral-- unmoral, that is. Right and wrong didn't exist. He'd do anything-- anything. And it was all a game to him."

That was what ultimately caused the boys' downfall. As Leopold and Loeb drew closer, their "games" turned into crimes. They set fires and went on joyrides with stolen cars. They outwitted the police every time, so they assumed they were invincible.

It all came to a head on November 11, 1923, when they burglarized a Zeta Beta Tau fraternity house. Loeb had pledged ZBT as an undergrad, but they had only reluctantly let him in because of rumors that he and Leopold were homosexual. The burglary seemed to be Loeb's revenge. But on the drive home, the boys got into a bitter argument; Leopold thought the crime was sloppy and juvenile, while Loeb felt betrayed at his friend's lack of support. Their relationship threatened to fall apart until they worked out a "compact."

Under their agreement, they would keep their relationship going while they planned the perfect crime. And that, in turn, would become the plot to kill Bobby Franks.

Those revelations turned the case upside down. They didn't justify the murder, by any means, but they did reveal the boys' state of mind. And as the details became public, Leopold and Loeb started to garner sympathy. Fewer and fewer papers called for them to be hanged. A few flappers even showed up at the courthouse, wanting to meet the boys.

Darrow didn't intend to get Leopold and Loeb off the hook altogether. But he did want to save them from the gallows, so he convinced them to plead guilty and waive their right to a jury trial. The papers kept on calling the case "the trial of the century," but technically it was now just a sentencing hearing. The only question was whether the boys would end up with life in prison, or death.

In court, Darrow reigned supreme. He hardly bothered to dispute the prosecution's witnesses, because the basic case facts weren't in dispute. But he did parade his doctors through the witness stand, and he spent plenty of time laying out his own views on the subject.

Darrow had always opposed the death penalty, and now he was able to broadcast his views on a national stage. He took three days to deliver his closing statement, and his words were so eloquent that death-penalty opponents still use them to this day:

Here were two boys with good intellect, one eighteen and one nineteen. They had all the prospects that life could hold out for any of the young... [they were] boys who never knew what it was to want a dollar; boys who could reach any position that was given to boys of that kind to reach; boys of distinguished and honorable families, families of wealth and position, with all the world before them. And they gave it all up for nothing, for nothing! They took a little companion of one of them, on a crowded street, and killed him, for nothing, and sacrificed everything that could be of value in human life upon the crazy scheme of a couple of immature lads....

But when you are pitying the father and the mother of poor Bobby Franks, what about the fathers and mothers of these two unfortunate boys, and what about the unfortunate boys themselves, and what about all the fathers and all the mothers and all the boys and all the girls who tread a dangerous maze in darkness from birth to death? Do you think you can cure the hatreds and the maladjustments of the world by hanging them? You simply show your ignorance and your hate when you say it. You may here and there cure hatred with love and understanding, but you can only add fuel to the flames by cruelty and hate....

I know that every step in the progress of humanity has been met and opposed by prosecutors, and many times by courts. I know that when poaching and petty larceny was punishable by death in England, juries refused to convict. They were too humane to obey the law; and judges refused to sentence.... If these two boys die on the scaffold, which I can never bring myself to imagine, if they do die on the scaffold, the details of this will be spread over the world. Every newspaper in the United States will carry a full account. Every newspaper of Chicago will be filled with the gruesome details. It will enter every home and every family. Will it make men better or make men worse?...
I know the future is with me and what I stand for here; not merely for the lives of these two unfortunate lads, but for all boys and girls; all of the young, and as far as possible, for all of the old. I am pleading that we overcome cruelty with kindness and hatred with love. I know the future is on my side. Your Honor stands between the past and the future. You may hang these boys; you may hang them by the neck until they are dead. But in doing it you will turn your face toward the past.

In the end, Judge John Caverly wasn't swayed by the psychologists' findings, Darrow's closing statements, or any of the other evidence presented. Darrow had certainly won in the court of public opinion. But the only thing Judge Caverly considered was that there was no precedent for the State of Illinois hanging a youth. He said he had no choice but to sentence the boys to life plus ninety-nine years in prison.

For Loeb, it was indeed a life sentence. He would spend the next eleven years in jail, until he was stabbed by a fellow inmate. Leopold was incarcerated in the same prison, and he rushed to the infirmary as soon as he heard the news. Loeb died on January 26, 1936, with Leopold at his side.

There was no denying the irony in Loeb's death. His killer claimed to be fending off his sexual advances, but his story didn't hold up under scrutiny, and his true motive was never clear. That meant that Richard Loeb, who had committed the ultimate senseless crime, had now been killed in a senseless crime himself. And as before, his story made all the front pages; in Chicago it even upstaged the death of Britain's King George V, which had happened the same week.

Leopold did survive his incarceration. In 1949 Governor Adlai Stevenson commuted his sentence, and in 1958 Leopold was granted parole. By that point he was expressing remorse for his crime, although many people doubted his sincerity. He moved to Puerto Rico to escape the publicity, got married, and tried to build some semblance of a normal life. He kept mostly to himself until died on August 29, 1971.

Today, nearly 90 years after the murder, the case has mostly faded from popular culture. It has been chronicled in a few books-- most notably Hal Higdon's Crime of the Century-- but it has never appeared in the movies, aside from some heavily fictionalized films such as Alfred Hitchcock's Rope. The more famous cases today include the Charles Manson murders and the O.J. Simpson trial, which were as sensational in their era as the Leopold and Loeb case was in its own.

The scene of the crime is most notable now for its Secret Service presence, since President Obama's Chicago home lies just around the corner. Bobby Franks's home is in danger of demolition, but for now it still stands at the corner of Ellis Avenue and Hyde Park Boulevard. The homes of the Leopold and Loeb families are both gone, but certain pieces-- such as the Loebs' tennis courts-- are still there. Wolf Lake, where the killers hid Bobby's body, has been preserved as part of William Powers State Recreational Area.

More importantly, the impact of the case has never faded away. Today almost every serious crime involves psychological evaluations. Freudian psychology has become the conventional wisdom-- in no small part because of Leopold and Loeb-- and chemical imbalances are common knowledge.

A few things will never change. The killing of Bobby Franks is still as inexplicable as ever, and it probably always will be. And the drama, the weirdness, and the horror of the case will never fade away.

Peter J. Spalding likes to write. He has recently completed a screenplay based on the facts of the Leopold & Loeb case and is also the author of 1871: A Novel of the Great Fire, two stage plays and five additional screenplays. In addition, Spalding maintains a popular blog, "Finding the Write Words." A former Chicagoan, Spalding now resides in California.

Recommended reading:

The Leopold and Loeb Trial (Clarence Darrow Collection)
Illinois v. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb (Famous American Trials)

The Strange Case of Leopold and Loeb: Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 15:33:54 PST

By Peter J. Spalding

The biggest scandal of 1920's Chicago unfolded innocuously at first, when 14-year-old Bobby Franks missed his family dinner.

It was a Wednesday evening, May 21, 1924. Bobby had just umpired a ballgame down the street from his Ellis Avenue home, and no one seemed to have seen him since. Bobby's father Jacob sensed that something was wrong; but even as he started calling Bobby's friends, he could hardly have imagined what was about to happen.

Chicago, of course, was no stranger to scandal. The month before, Al Capone had taken over Cicero's city government in the bloodiest election Illinois had ever seen, and Capone's brother Frank had been killed in the process. Jazz and drink were everywhere, as were gambling, prostitution, and a slew of other vices. Girls' hemlines were rising, and their hairstyles were shortening, both of which sent older generations into a tizzy.

When Bobby disappeared, the city was just wrapping up its sensational "jazz killer" trial. A young married woman had shot a man in her bedroom. Initially she said the dead man was a burglar, but then she admitted they'd been having an affair. In quick succession she hired a fast-talking lawyer, faked a pregnancy, and claimed self-defense, all of which would eventually get her acquitted. A prominent Tribune reporter, Maurine Dallas Watkins, would later use the scandal as the basis for her play Chicago.

Before long though, Bobby's disappearance would overshadow everything else in the news. The Franks family was wealthy, well-connected, and lived in one of the safest neighborhoods in town. It seemed inconceivable that anything bad could have happened. But within a few hours, Bobby's mother got a call saying her son had been kidnapped. The ransom note came the next morning, and its words were chillingly calm and collected:

Dear Sir:

As you no doubt know by this time, your son has been kidnapped. Allow us to assure you that he is at present well and safe. You need fear no physical harm for him, provided you live up carefully to the following instructions and to such others as you will receive by future communications. Should you, however, disobey any of our instructions, even slightly, his death will be the penalty.

The kidnapper went on to demand $10,000 in cash. He said further instructions would come by phone that afternoon. Then he said:

As a final word of warning, this is an extremely commercial proposition and we are prepared to put our threat into execution should we have reasonable grounds to believe that you have committed an infraction of the above instructions. However, should you carefully follow our instructions to the letter, we can assure you that your son will be safely returned to you within six hours of our receipt of the money.

Yours truly,
GEORGE JOHNSON

The note had clearly been written by a well-spoken, well-educated criminal. But at that moment, the family's only focus was on getting Bobby back. Jacob Franks drove to his bank and withdrew hundreds of $20 and $50 bills. The kidnappers sent him a cab and told him to drive to a drugstore, where they would call him with more instructions. But before the cab could go anywhere, Bobby's uncle Edwin Greshan called with bad news.

Bobby, it turned out, was already dead. His corpse had been found near Wolf Lake that morning, and Greshan had just identified him.

With that, the whole scheme unraveled. All thoughts of the ransom disappeared, and the police embarked on a citywide manhunt. The press jumped on the story, portraying it as a senseless tragedy, a high-stakes heist, a heinous crime, and a perplexing mystery, all rolled into one. The Chicago Tribune offered a $5,000 reward for an exclusive scoop. The Herald and Examiner matched the offer and threw in an extra $50 for whomever could come up with the best theory for what might have happened.

"Police call the crime the strangest and most baffling homicide in Chicago's history," the Associated Press reported.

The truth was even stranger than the papers had thought. A week later, the killers turned up under the Franks family's nose-- and they turned out to be the most unlikely murderers imaginable.

Leopold, Jr., and Richard Loeb, seemed like model citizens. They were both accomplished child prodigies who had entered college when most of their peers were just starting high school. In May 1924, they were 19 and 18 years old, respectively, and were graduate students at the University of Chicago. Leopold had been accepted into Harvard Law School and was set to transfer that fall.

Their pedigree was impeccable too. Leopold's father was the heir to a shipping fortune as well as a self-made businessman in his own right, while his mother came from a prominent banking family. Loeb's father was one of the top executives who had turned Sears, Roebuck, and Company into a mail-order juggernaut.

So when Leopold and Loeb were arrested for Bobby Franks's murder, the news struck the city-- and in fact the whole country-- like a thunderclap.

The Chicago papers pushed all other news aside. The Tribune, for example, devoted almost its entire front section to the case. Even hundreds of miles away, the New York Times splashed the headline across its front page: "TWO RICH STUDENTS CONFESS TO KILLING FRANKS BOY IN CAR." The Los Angeles Times ran a breathless "EXCLUSIVE DISPATCH" detailing the confessions. Hundreds of other papers ran similar pieces.

"For some reason," Leopold would later say to his parole board, "back in 1924, the newspapers found in [our] particular case apparently something that would sell, something that would interest the public, whether it was youth, the position of our families, the fact that we were college students, a combination of these things, I really don't know."

In truth, though, Leopold and Loeb invited all that attention. They took to the spotlight like natural celebrities: they read all their own press clippings, they made sure to look good on camera, and they knew just what to say to push reporters' buttons. On June 1-- a day after their confessions-- they showed the police how they'd committed the murder, and they let the press come along on a tour of the crime scenes. Along the way, the boys spouted off plenty of sound bites.

"This thing will be the making of me," Loeb said as the motorcade made its way through the city. "I'll spend a few years in jail and I'll be released. I'll come out to a new life. I'll go to work and I'll work hard and I'll amount to something, have a career."

Leopold seemed downright proud of his crime. "There was nothing flamboyant in that [ransom] letter," he said. "It was concise and well phrased. It instilled terror. And it certainly impelled action." He went on to tell the Tribune that "we even rehearsed the kidnapping at least three times, carrying it through in all the details, lacking only the boy we were to kidnap and kill."

"My mother wouldn't believe me," Loeb complained. "I told her it was true, but she wouldn't believe me. What hurts is that she won't believe. Even now I'm sure she doesn't think I did it. That hurts-- a mother's faith, the disgrace to the family."

The most infamous quote of all came from Leopold: "It was just an experiment. It is as easy for us to justify as an entomologist in impaling a beetle on a pin."

That was the part that upset the public the most, because Leopold and Loeb had no real motive or explanation for what they'd done. They had killed Bobby Franks for no particular reason, and they didn't seem the slightest bit ashamed.

Even the ransom was just incidental. The boys were so rich that they didn't need $10,000, nor did they have any real use for it. Leopold admitted that spending the money would've aroused suspicion, so he had planned to "hide it away, either in a safety deposit box or some other safe place, for a year, and then spend it very carefully." He later said that "the money consideration only came in afterwards, and never was important.... The money was a part of our objective, as was also the commission of the crime; but that was not the exact motive, but that came afterwards."

At least legally speaking, it seemed like an open-and-shut case. Leopold and Loeb had both confessed, and aside from a few minor details, their stories checked out. The physical evidence and the witnesses all told the same tale. The only question seemed to be how quickly the boys would be hanged.

But there the story took another unexpected turn. The most well-respected but controversial attorney in America had agreed to take on the case. Clarence Darrow felt the boys were being tried in the papers when they needed to be tried in court; and he was determined to fix that.

Darrow would not disappoint. Over the next few weeks, he would turn the story of Leopold and Loeb on its ear.

NEXT Time: The Strange Case of Leopold and Loeb: Part 2

Peter J. Spalding likes to write. He has recently completed a screenplay based on the facts of the Franks murder. He is also the author of 1871: A Novel of the Great Fire, two stage plays and five additional screenplays. In addition, Spalding maintains a popular blog, "Finding the Write Words."

Recommended reading:

Leopold and Loeb (Chicago History Online)

See also: Chicago Daily News photos; Leopold and Loeb

Above photos provided by the author.

At 125 Years Old, Gonnella Bread Still Isn't Stale

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 03:53:13 PDT

Let's see a show of hands. Who out there hasn't bought a loaf of Gonnella bread or scarfed down a hot dog at the United Center or Wrigley Field? That's what I thought. If you hadn't it would be practically un-Chicagoan! The Gonnella Bakery has been a Chi-town institution for 125 years, beginning in 1886 when Alessando Gonnella made his way to the exploding city to make a better life for himself and his family. Lots of Italians came to Chicago in the late nineteenth century; some were successful and some were not. But Alessandro knew how to bake bread and the thousands of people who poured into the city were more than happy to exchange their "dough" for the Gonnella goodies.

Alessandro first set up shop in a storefront bakery on DeKoven Street. Since his family had not yet joined him in Chicago, the little bake shop had a staff of one who did the mixing, baking and the evening delivery. It wasn't long before the Gonnella wagons became a familiar neighborhood site. By 1896 Alessandro had outgrown the little shop and moved to a larger building on Sangamon Street near Ohio. Things were going so well that Alessandro's wife, Marianna Marcucci, was able to leave their northern Italian village of Barga and join her husband, and in the early 1900s Marianna's brothers also made the trip.
The Gonnella and Marcucci families still run the bakery today. (33 family members are employed by the company today.)

In 1915, the family moved their bakery to Erie Street. A fleet of horse-drawn carriages were now making more than 200 deliveries a day. And the Gonnella company is still going strong today.

Gonnella delivery carriages line up on Sangamon just off Grand Ave. on Chicago’s west side in this vintage family photo taken in either 1905 or 1906. Gonnella Baking Company was growing, as was the Gonnella family. Alessandro Gonnella is pictured left, in a carriage with his wife and his first-born son, Annunzio, born in 1904.

Any company that has been in business for 125 years is entitled to celebrate, but Gonnella is doing it in a unique way:

To celebrate Gonnella’s 125th Anniversary in 2011, the company’s founding families are asking loyal customers, current and former employees, and friends to share their favorite Gonnella memories from over the years.

“We constantly hear from families who have grown up with Gonnella bread at their dinner table,” said Gonnella President Nick Marcucci. “As our family reflects on the past 125 years, we would like to hear from others who have their own Gonnella bread traditions.

Memories can come from anywhere. Maybe it’s biking to the bakery to get a loaf of fresh Gonnella bread for dinner because your mother said dinner wouldn’t be complete without it, or listening to legendary Chicago sports announcer Wesley “Red” Rush deliver his signature line, “Try Gonnella – it’s swella, fella!”

Anyone with a Gonnella-inspired memory can submit their story online at www.gonnella.com and clicking on the 125th anniversary link. Staff members will select the top stories and post them to the Gonnella website. The company also plans to select a grand prize winner for a very special surprise. Gonnella will also thank the best contributors with fresh baked bread and other surprises. Memories can be submitted throughout 2011.

What a great idea! Actually, I have already seen quite a few memory postings concerning Gonnella on the web; and check out the Facebook page, "I Grew Up on the Northwest Side of Chicago."

So, is the Gonnella Bakery the oldest in Chicago? Interesting you should ask. I believe it is, although David Witter, author of Oldest Chicago, might differ. Other contenders for the title are Pompei Bakery (1909; but it isn't a bakery now) and Roeser's Bakery (1911, which most definitely is). I say we battle it out with french rolls at ten paces! What do you all think?

Recommended reading:

Gonnella Bakery (abc7) Some very cool facts about the company.
In the Vicinity of Hull House and Maxwell Street Market
Italians (Encyclopedia of Chicago)

Photos courtesy of Gonnella Bakery Co.

The Blizzard of '29

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 10:23:23 PST

Like the rest of the nation, Chicago was still reeling from the Stock Market crash late in 1929. In December, Chicagoans were busily preparing for Christmas unaware of the deep depression that would cripple the nation for years. And, then it hit. A blizzard bombarded the city from December 17th through the 20th dropping 15 inches of snow, and it would become the sixth worst snowstorm in Chicago history. Twelve people would perish because of the storm.

While thousands of men were put to work clearing the streets, John T. McCutcheon focused his front page editorial cartoon on Chicago's lack of a subway.

Plans for passenger subway service in Chicago date back to the turn of the 20th century, and the original permits to dig the freight tunnels allowed for future cut-and-cover subway development above the tunnels. In the 1930s, when the Chicago Rapid Transit Company and the city finalized the design of the State Street and Dearborn street subways, plans called for the tunnels to be dug through the blue clay along the line originally followed by the freight tunnels. Excavation debris from the new subway tunnels was hauled away by the Chicago Tunnel Company as the subway replaced the freight tunnels along their route.
The Chicago Tunnel Company went bankrupt and applied for voluntary reorganization in 1956. The tunnel company attempted to sever itself from the bankrupt holding company, claiming it could operate at a profit, but by 1959, the tunnel asked for abandonment permission. The Interstate Commerce Commission consented to abandonment that July, and the tunnel assets were sold at auction for $64,000 in October. (Wikipedia, Chicago Tunnel Company)

It was a good idea in 1929 to stay off the streets during a blizzard, and it's a good idea today. Let's be careful out there...

Photo credit: LaSalle Street Station, The Library of Congress (Chicago Daily News negatives collection, DN-0003451

Back to the Future of Baseball

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 13:21:45 PST

Do you like a mystery? A reader, Shawn England, recently sent me some pictures and asked if I had any information on the depicted event:

I believe the picture was taken in the Chicago area due to the fact that the Policeman has CCP on his belt buckle. I have found photos of Chicago police with the same buckle and attire. I am hoping someone may be able to identify the exact location or the guys pictured. I have exhausted all of my go to locations in trying to pin down the names that are written on the back, with no success.

My take on the photos representation, is that it is some sort of parody on baseball. Perhaps showing the future of baseball in (a hundred years from now" in "1999" as the game was fairly rough in the days of which this picture was taken. Anyway, any help or direction you can provide will be greatly appreciated.
Here are the pictures:

Fascinating shots! Shawn also posed the question on the Net54Baseball Forum so there are a few additional clues over there. There is what appears to be a rifle on the ground and one forum member noted, "this was a very rough period in baseball...lots of fighting and problems...lots of drinkers and high livers...actually what led to the founding of the American League...perhaps this was a clever play on the idea that by 1999 baseball would be played by thugs with guns...much like the NBA of modern day." OK, that last comment was tongue-in-cheek, but I think the forum members have some great observations. It certainly sounds/appears to be a Chicago event, but is it? If anyone has some additional information on these "Marty McFlyball pics," please post in the comments.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Received from a reader: My take on the baseball mystery is that it was a promotional advertisement scheme for one of the teams playing that day. I was able to magnify the scoreboard and although it is not crystal clear, it appears that the name of the visiting team was the Criminals. I can definitely make out a CRIM. This would account for all the criminal related dress of the various individuals. A clown act perhaps designed to promote the team and playfully intimidate the opposing team or fan base.

Chicago: A Satire

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 10:36:59 PST

"Farewell, Chicago! Ruin fall on you!
I hate, despise, and loathe you through and through.
I hate the tricks of this intemperate clime,
The dust in summer and in spring the slime;
Nature is here on one perpetual spree;
She shifts from hot to cold with devilish glee;
From flare to frost so quick the vile jade turns,
Your left hand freezes while your right hand burns.
Sometimes you stroll forth. May in all your veins;
You turn a corner and December reigns."

These lines, accurately describing Chicago's unpredictable weather, were published in a 1901 poem titled, "Chicago: A Satire." The author is listed as Thomas P. Johnson, but don't bother revving up the Google search engine. This little poem first appeared in "The Inlander," a University of Michigan student publication established in 1890, and it doesn't appear that Mr. Johnson continued writing.

In the poem, the author is saying goodbye to his friend, Jack, at the train station. It seems Jack has not done very well in Chicago and laments, "When stocks is watered, somebody gets soaked." Jack doesn't like Chicago's air, the trains, feels the city is crime-ridden, hates the people and immigrants. In fact, he is just glad to be getting out of Chicago. His friend, the author, counters the arguments, and reminds the reader that Chicago is a different sort of city:

"And even this filth, are blessings in disguise.
The former drive the weak forth in dismay;
The latter keeps the gilded drone away;
Hence our proud energy, our manners free.
Our ways of kindly hospitality.
This is no place, my boy, to whine or shirk;
This soil is sacred to the god of work.
The deep low song the laboring city sings
Is full of discords to the ears of kings.
I love the people's insolence and pride;
Long be the rich by their stern hate defied."

It's a wonderful oddity; a little gem of prairie prose poetry. Enjoy.

Birth of a New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Chicagobookbabe) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 09:29:06 PST

It's New Year's Day and I'm guessing not many people are going to be feeling up to reading much, so I'll make this brief. I want to wish all my readers and supporters a very Happy New Year. Without you The Journal would have not survived these past three years and I am forever grateful. Last year was rough; I'm glad it is now in the history books. But, the first of January brings hope and new opportunities for better days. The Quaker poet Bernard Barton called New Year's Day the "birthday for all mankind; a very fitting label for John T. McCutcheon's January 1, 1911 Chicago Tribune editorial cartoon. (I do take exception to McCutcheon saying the New Year is a boy, but who am I to criticize the master?) Barton's poem, "A New Year's Eve," is not a particularly cheerful poem, so I'll leave you this New Year's Day with the following, as you make that list of resolutions...

"New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual." - Mark Twain