Secrets of the Heart

by Al Lacy

  Katie laughed. “I’ve learned there’s something about being out there by the lake, breathing that fresh air, that increases everyone’s appetite. I’m just making sure there’s enough.”

  It was a golden day, and when the O’Learys found their favorite spot on the lakeshore, Patrick romped with the children along the water’s edge while Katie sat on a patchwork quilt and happily observed the fun.

  They ate lunch while squawking seagulls flew overhead and some landed nearby.

  “We gonna feed them, Mommy?” Amy asked.

  “Not while we’re sitting here,” said Katie. “If we start that, we’ll be in trouble. Some of them will fly to their friends and announce that we’ve put out a feast. They’d drive us crazy. We’ll leave some food on the sand when we go.”

  “Look, Daddy!” Ryan shouted, pointing due east. “There’s a ship coming in!”

  The O’Learys watched the graceful, billowing sails until the ship pulled into Chicago’s harbor.

  As the afternoon sun started to make its downward trek in the sky, they loaded up the wagon and headed westward through the city toward home, tired but happy.

  During the drive through Chicago, they saw two different fires being fought. One was a boardinghouse aflame in Company Three’s district. Company Five was dousing a burning barn.

  They arrived in their neighborhood in time to stop at Fitzhugh’s Feed and Supply to buy more salt chips for Dinah.

  By now, Dinah was drinking normally again. Patrick hurriedly gave her a dose of salt chips, kissed Katie and Amy and Ryan, and rushed off to make it to the fire station by four o’clock.

  Professional fire watcher Cal Perkins greeted his replacement, Nate Canton, at the Courthouse Tower downtown.

  “Hello yourself,” said Canton as he topped the spiral staircase to the tower. “Busy day, wasn’t it? At least I heard a lot of fire wagon bells clanging.”

  “‘Twas pretty busy,” said Perkins, leaving the small table that held the telegraph key. “Total of six fires today. Far as I know, nothing that burned more than one building in a single place. It’s all yours. Keep a sharp eye, and tell Charlie when he comes in at midnight to stay awake. No napping.”

  “As if I had to tell him that!” Canton said with a laugh.

  “Go ahead, anyhow. I like to see Charlie steam up!”

  Nate was still laughing as Cal descended the spiral stairs.

  While work shifts were changing in station houses all over the city, and Nate Canton was sitting down at his telegraph table, Chief Fire Marshal Robert Williams was in a meeting with the Chicago Common Council. He stood at the end of a long table where the eighteen men sat, most of them frowning at him.

  Williams had been reasoning with the council for over two hours, and now the councilmen were watching the clock, hardly listening, as he told them it was imperative they come up with money from somewhere. He needed more firemen and more equipment, especially in light of the city’s present fire danger.

  The Chicago Fire Department, Williams pointed out, numbered only 264 men equipped with thirty-three horse-drawn fire wagons. This meager force was supposed to protect the entire city of over three hundred thousand people. Williams had asked for more men and equipment many times in the past. But the council had always insisted that his department was adequately supplied. Today’s meeting was no different.

  Council chairman Edgar Phelps yawned and said, “Chief Williams, it’s getting late. Do you have anything else to say before we close the meeting?”

  “Yes, I do. We’ve had exactly thirty fires break out in this city in the past seven days. So far, we’ve been able to subdue them before vast damage was done. But gentlemen, if this drought goes on, it’s only going to get worse. I asked you three months ago for a fireboat on the Chicago River because of all the warehouses down there. I pointed out that we have twenty-four wooden bridges. But still I can’t get you to listen to me. I have no fireboat. If those warehouses ever catch fire, they’ll go up in flames without us being able to put a drop of water on them.”

  “What are you talking about, Williams?” gusted a councilman named Myers. “You have fire wagons. If a warehouse catches fire, bring in your wagons.”

  Williams’s features turned crimson. “Can’t do it, Mr. Myers. This council made that impossible when you leased the river street frontage to businesses, making the river inaccessible to fire wagons. Two years ago I begged you not to do it. Now it’s unalterable.”

  “Well, I guess well just have to hope no fires get started in the warehouses that line the river,” Myers said. “There simply isn’t enough money in the city’s treasury to buy you a fireboat, Chief.”

  Chief Williams threw up his hands, turned to the chairman, and said, “I’ve wasted my time here today, Mr. Phelps.” With that, he pivoted and left the room.

  “He’s an alarmist,” Myers said, rising from his chair. “He’s got the whole city scared to death. I think we need to look into getting us a new chief fire marshal.”

  It was almost ten o’clock that night when Nate Canton stood in the Courthouse Tower in downtown Chicago and looked eastward at the moonlight on the churning waters of Lake Michigan. A high wind had come up and was raising whitecaps on the lake’s surface.

  He turned slowly, letting his gaze roam over the city, and suddenly he saw yellow flames on the west side. He studied the city map by the light of the lantern hanging above his head and pinpointed the blaze in the 27th District.

  Immediately he began clicking off a message to Company Six: “Fire just beyond you to the northwest. Looks to be in the vicinity of the Illinois Planing Mill.”

  At the Little Giant Company Six firehouse, the man assigned to sleep in Chief Bill Murham’s office came awake immediately and listened to the clacking key for a moment, then dispatched two of the three fire wagons. Chief Murham lived only a short distance from the station and was alerted by one of the men who stayed behind.

  By the time Company Six reached the planing mill, it was consumed in flames and was beyond saving. Not only was the mill burning, but the high wind had spread it to a nearby lumberyard, which was going up in flames. Chief Murham arrived shortly after the wagons and directed them to work at stopping the blaze from spreading further, considering the fierceness of the wind.

  A messenger was sent to advise more companies to come help.

  By the time a fatigued and discouraged Chief Williams arrived with three additional companies, the high wind was spreading the ravenous fire eastward over a four-block area.

  Williams saw at once that his 185 firefighters on the scene could not contain the flames. He enlisted Chief Murham to help him press into service hundreds of men who had gathered to watch the blaze. They set up a bucket brigade from the banks of the Chicago River, but the wind-driven fire continued to gain ground.

  The firefighters and citizens fought the stubborn blaze for seven hours before it was finally under control. Both the planing mill and the lumberyard were gone, along with many other businesses and homes in the four-block area. By 5:30 on Sunday morning, 61 firemen and 110 firefighting citizens had been taken to hospitals, suffering from burns or smoke inhalation. A few of the firemen hospitalized were from Company Six.

  Chief Murham asked for volunteers to go home and get some rest and come back Sunday afternoon so the Company wouldn’t be short of manpower in case of another fire.

  Patrick O’Leary was one of the volunteers. He would be back at noon and would stay on duty until Monday afternoon at the regular four o’clock shift change.

  In addition to the firemen who had been hospitalized, two horse-drawn fire wagons—one from Company Eight, and one from Company Eleven—were sent to a repair shop. From those same companies, three horses had to be removed from active service because of burns.

  Chief Williams estimated fire damage to be in excess of $750,000. He sent a written copy of the estimate by special messenger to Chicago Common Council chairman Edgar Phelps, with a note attached that stated the fire
could have been extinguished much sooner if Williams had had the men and equipment for which he had asked.

  Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. The high winds had cleared away the smoke from the city and diminished to a mild breeze. It was the beginning of a perfect autumn day.

  Kathleen O’Malley awakened as the sunlight peeked through her bedroom window. When she remembered she was going to church with the Killanins, she sat bolt upright in bed and then stretched and enjoyed a big yawn. Leaving the warmth of her feather bed, she headed for the dresser and poured water into a wash basin from a flowered pitcher. When she had washed her face and dried it, she picked up her hairbrush and sat down in front of the mirror, yawning again.

  She could hear sounds from other parts of the house, signifying that her parents were up and about.

  Kathleen had washed her hair the night before, and it fairly crackled with vibrance as she brushed it. It was a little wild, but she pinned it into place as best she could.

  She went to her closet and chose a cobalt blue dress with a large white lace collar and a shiny black satin bow at the neckline. She slipped her feet into her best black lace-up boots and squirmed for a moment. She hadn’t worn the boots except for special events and on the rare occasions when her family went to church. She was tempted to wear her everyday boots, since they were so comfortable. But they were a bit worn and scuffed and would not look good at church.

  She took one last look in the mirror, decided she had done what she could to tame her wild hair, then patted down her skirt and went downstairs to help her mother prepare breakfast.

  Turlough and Evelyn Killanin waited in the family buggy while Hennie dashed to the front door of the O’Malley house and knocked. Moments later, Kathleen and Hennie were sitting in the backseat as the buggy headed toward downtown Chicago.

  Butterflies flitted in Kathleen’s stomach when she entered the church and walked down the aisle. This was so different from her church. People were actually talking and smiling as they greeted each other. They seemed so happy…like Hennie.

  Pastor J. C. Henson taught the auditorium class, and Kathleen enjoyed listening to him because he had a wonderful sense of humor and made her laugh, though most of the lesson on walking with Jesus in the Christian life went over her head.

  In the morning preaching service, Ira Sankey led the congregational singing and sang three solos. Before the final solo, Pastor Henson introduced evangelist Dwight L. Moody, who would come to the pulpit and preach immediately after the solo.

  Sankey was accompanied by piano and pump organ as he sang the great hymn “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.”

  O sacred Head, now wounded,

  With grief and shame weighed down,

  Now scornfully surrounded

  With thorns, Thine only crown,

  How art Thou pale with anguish,

  With sore abuse and scorn!

  How does that visage languish

  Which once was bright as morn!

  Kathleen noted that people around her were wiping away tears. The last two verses gripped Kathleen as the words came from Sankey’s deep baritone voice:

  What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered

  Was all for sinners gain:

  Mine, mine was the transgression,

  But Thine the deadly pain.

  Lo, here I fall, my Saviour!

  ’Tis I deserve Thy place;

  Look on me with Thy favour,

  Vouchsafe to me Thy grace!

  What language shall I borrow

  To thank Thee, dearest Friend,

  For this, Thy dying sorrow,

  Thy pity without end?

  Oh, make me Thine forever!

  And should I fainting be,

  Lord, let me never, never

  Outlive my love for Thee!

  Sankey, himself, was weeping as he finished the song and sat down on the platform beside the pastor.

  When the stout-bodied D. L. Moody stepped to the pulpit, he opened his Bible and preached from Matthew 27:29–31:

  “And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews! And they spit upon him, and took the reed and smote him on the head. And after that they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.”

  Moody’s sermon took his hearers from the moment when the crown of thorns was put on the Lord’s head until He was nailed to the cross and died for sinners. Moody spoke of the fire that had hit Chicago’s west side the night before, using it as an illustration of the reality of a burning hell for those in the audience who were unsaved. But Jesus had come from heaven to earth for the express purpose of making the way for sinners to be saved and forgiven, and to miss hell. Moody wept as he elaborated on the Saviour’s suffering to keep sinners from hell. He closed the sermon with an invitation for the lost to come for salvation.

  A large number of people responded as the gathering rose to their feet, and Ira Sankey sang an invitation song.

  Hennie watched Kathleen from the corner of her eye and noticed that her friend kept her eyes downcast. Hennie felt a constraint to say anything more to her right now, It was up to the Holy Spirit to do His work in Kathleen’s heart.

  KATHLEEN O’MALLEY WAS UNUSUALLY QUIET as she climbed into the Killanin buggy beside Hennie.

  As Turlough Killanin guided the team out of the church parking lot, he said over his shoulder, “So what did you think of the services, Kathleen?”

  Evelyn adjusted herself on the front seat so she could easily turn and look at the girl.

  “Your services are quite different than those at our church, Mr. Killanin. I…I have never heard preaching like Mr. Moody’s.”

  “How is it different from the preaching in your own church, dear?” Evelyn asked.

  Kathleen blinked rapidly and smoothed the skirt of her dress. “We are never warned of ending up in a burning hell if we don’t repent and receive Jesus Christ into our hearts. We are simply told that if we follow our religion and do the best we can, we will go to heaven when we die. But Mr. Moody’s sermon was different. He seemed to have it in for religion.”

  “Well,” Turlough said, “the devil has come up with religion as a substitute for salvation. With religion, the emphasis is on what people can do to get themselves into heaven with the help of religious leaders and by following certain ordinances and the like. The true salvation God has provided is in the Lord Jesus Christ, Himself, and His finished work at Calvary. You heard Mr. Moody point out from Scripture that we are all guilty sinners in need of forgiveness, and in need of salvation. We cannot do something to save ourselves, and there is nothing some religious leader can do to help save us. Jesus does all the saving when we’re willing to repent of our sin and put our faith in Him and Him alone to save us.”

  Kathleen nodded, but a small frown wrinkled her brow.

  “You see, dear,” put in Evelyn, “if religious leaders had some power to remove our sins, and we could please God by our own so-called good deeds, Jesus would not have gone to the cross. He wouldn’t have suffered as He did, nor shed His blood.”

  Kathleen nodded again, and the words from Ira Sankey’s last solo and what Dwight Moody had preached repeated over and over in her mind.

  “Do you understand, Kathleen?” Evelyn said.

  Kathleen thought on her reply for a few seconds, then said, “I need to think about it, Mrs. Killanin. It’s…it’s just so different than what I’m used to.”

  Hennie took Kathleen’s hand. “Will you still come home with us, spend the afternoon, and go to church with us tonight?”

  Kathleen nodded in jerky little movements and said, “Yes, Hennie, I will.”

  As the buggy moved through Chicago’s residential areas toward the west side, Kathleen O’Malley’s insides churned. She struggled to suppress her fear of another hellfire and brimstone sermon that evening.


  At the O’Leary home, Katie fed her family an early lunch so Patrick could make it to the firehouse by noon.

  When the meal was over, Patrick hugged his children, then took Katie in his arms. “Sorry to leave the milking to you four times in a row, honey.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, rising up on tiptoe to kiss him. “You needed your sleep when you got home this morning. I’m glad to do my part.”

  Patrick hugged her tight, then said, “I appreciate your attitude, sweetheart. Dinah’s looking better, and I hate to ask you to do it, but its best that she be given salt for another three or four days for good measure. I’ll be home to do some of the salt-giving, at least.”

  “Darling, it’s not a problem. Now, you go on and do your duty for the Chicago Fire Department.”

  As Patrick O’Leary walked down the street, he looked toward the sky. Not a cloud in sight. He shook his head in despair, thinking of the worsening fire hazard in the city as each rainless day came and went. Last night was bad enough. He hated to think of a fire more widespread and destructive than that one.

  When evening came, Katie O’Leary milked the cows and, as usual, threw Dinah’s milk away, though she hated the loss of funds it represented.

  After feeding Ryan and Amy a nourishing supper, Katie did the dishes with their help, then heated water for their baths. Amy bathed first, while Ryan straightened up his room. Little sister’s hair was still damp, and her face glowing from a good scrub, when Katie put her in a fresh, clean flannel nightgown.

  When Ryan’s bath was over and he was in his nightshirt, Katie said, “Let’s get out your paper and pencils, and you two can sit here at the table and draw pictures while I go give Dinah her last salt chips for the day.”

  She lit the old lantern by the back door and carried it to the barn.

  The ailing cow was kept in a special stall. When Katie opened the gate and moved inside, she said, “Okay, sweet bovine, it’s time for your medicine.”

  As she spoke, she reached for the cloth sack hanging on a nail and remembered that it was nearly empty. She had meant to fill it up earlier in the day.