City of Light (29 page)

“As we take water from the river, we remain alert always to our charters from the state of New York.” Like an echo, Fitzhugh’s voice invaded my mind. “Solemnly we vow to preserve Niagara for the enjoyment and contemplation of future generations.”

I sighed. Fitzhugh was appealing enough, and he spoke with a measured calm that I appreciated after Bates’s dramatics. But he was an innocent compared to Daniel Henry Bates, a lamb in the lion’s den.

“Mr. Bates visits us from the esteemed city of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania,” Fitzhugh continued. “Therefore it is easy for him to speak of Niagara as if it existed only as a tourist attraction. But for those of us like myself and Mr. Thomas Sinclair and, I would guess, most of the audience here tonight—those of us who make our homes on the Niagara Frontier—benefits beyond tourism derive from the production of hydroelectric power at Niagara.

“First, this power reduces our dependence on coal. No longer are we at the mercy of the labor unrest which so often disrupts the coal industry. I’m sure no one here has forgotten last year’s devastating six-week strike, which pushed coal prices to extortionist levels. In the first months of 1901, however, our electrical output was equal to more than one thousand tons of coal a day. Furthermore, as electricity replaces coal, there is a concomitant natural purification of the atmosphere. In other words, the air becomes cleaner. Easier to breathe. Here too, as with saving the Falls, our interests commingle with those of the nature preservationists.

“In addition, the power station has created jobs for this area—thousands of jobs at the power station itself and at developing industries throughout the area, including the steel mills now under construction at Stony Point.”

Clearing his throat, he ruffled through his papers. “Now to the specifics of power generation. Mr. Bates grossly exaggerates in his reports of water usage. But in order to understand the true figures and their meaning, the numbers must be put in context. When you understand the volume of the Falls, you will understand how little impact the power station has.”

He took a deep breath and, so to speak, plunged in. “The natural flow of water over the Falls is two hundred and two thousand cubic feet per second, or five and a half billion gallons per hour. This is the equal of five million horsepower. The depth at the center of the Horseshoe Falls is estimated at approximately twenty feet. Mr. Bates’s diversion figure of thirty-six thousand cubic feet per second is absurd. The maximum capacity of each station is no more than nine thousand cubic feet per second, or seventy-two thousand horsepower.”

“Ah,” Elbert whispered, “he’s trying to slip something past us, telling us the usage for one station, when they have, what, two online, another coming? Sneaky little bastard.” From Elbert, that was a compliment.

“In actuality, the power station diverts approximately seven million gallons a minute, which equals no more than three to six inches off the depth at any given time. Such usage is minuscule within the overall context, and completely unnoticeable. The accusation that water usage increases at night is patently false, as well as illogical. Apart from those few industries which operate twenty-four hours a day, demand lessens at night.”

Could this be a trick too? I had thought that the whole point of electrolytic and electrochemical industries was that they
did
operate twenty-four hours a day.

“An aggregate of daily water use—”

Sotto voce
, Elbert said, “I’ve had enough of this.” He rose beside me. “Excuse me, Miss Letson. Forgive me, Mr. Fitzhugh.” With his voice carrying through the hall and capturing all attention, Elbert bowed to them both. “An inspired and passionate presentation for the engineers and mathematicians among us, but I can keep silent no longer.”

Fitzhugh looked stunned, moving backward to find his chair and sitting down with a bump beside Bates, who kept his face shielded with one hand.

Elbert stood proudly tall. He was renowned for his lecture tours (and for the high fees he received for them), and many in the audience probably felt themselves lucky to be hearing him speak for free. “The real issue here, if I may be so bold, is not cubic feet per second or gallons per minute or horsepower per hour or year or century.” He waved off these details. “The real issue here—and a great truth it is—has been ignored. Must
I
speak to it? Will no one else rise up to share the great truth that has been ignored?”

Pausing to build dramatic impact, he looked around with a benign, forgiving smile. “Will no one offer unto this debate the truth that Sinclair, Albright, Astor, Vanderbilt, Biddle, and all the rest are as much heroes as Daniel Henry Bates so obviously thinks he himself is? Will no one speak for the industrialist heroes among us?

“Let me paint their picture.” He waved his arm expansively, as if to create the illustration on the wall. “There they are, straddling the continent: investing their money, putting their families’ futures at risk, changing the nation with the discoveries they have helped bring into being. They are the new explorers: the new Columbus, the new Ponce de León, the new Henry Hudson. They are the ones willing to open themselves to new ideas. They are the ones who find the engineers and inventors and support them through the long hard hours of dark struggle until the coming of the light. They are the ones who offered a haven to Nikola Tesla with his alternating current, Charles Martin Hall with his aluminum, Edward Goodrich Acheson with his carborundum. Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a round of applause: to the industrialists!”

And he got his applause, all right. Indeed he had electrified the crowd.

“Now, I must also say”—and here he took on that self-deprecating, I-know-how-naughty-I-am look that let him be all things to all people—“being just an old-time socialist, as many of you know …” Grinning, he glanced around the room, eliciting a few laughs. “Mr. Bates raises one interesting question, and that is, who does own the Falls of Niagara?” Honest bewilderment seemed to suffuse his demeanor. “Mr. Bates would have us believe that ‘lovers of nature and God’ own the Falls of Niagara. One presumes that Mr. Fitzhugh would vouch for ownership by the titans of industry. At the moment, the only people who appear to own the Falls are those who are in a position to exploit it. And I find Daniel Henry Bates to be as exploitative as Thomas Sinclair!” The audience began to shift in their seats uncomfortably.

“Let us debate this question: Who owns the Falls? Not the land itself, now so graciously preserved as the reservation—” He bowed toward the men (most of them in our row) who had spearheaded the movement for the state park years before. They noticeably did not meet his gaze. “But the water that flows over it. Who owns that water? Surely not our friends from the nature preservation movement. Nor the eminently trustworthy and incorruptible bureaucrats of the state of New York.” This garnered a few laughs. “Nor their fellows of the royal province of Ontario. Nor even the noble industrialists wealthy enough to build power stations.

“Once we know who owns the waters, then we will know who owns the power so graciously produced by the power company. We will also know who owns the profits from the power being so graciously produced by the power company. And then we may even be surprised to discover”—he paused for effect—“that the common citizenry own the profits. Who should administer those profits on behalf of the citizenry is a question that I, your humble servant, am unable to answer.”

Abruptly Elbert sat down, to absolute silence. “Well, that certainly shook them up a bit,” he whispered to me, looking pleased.

John Milburn rose—as I could have predicted. Needless to say, he was the attorney for the Niagara Frontier Power Company. “May I interject a word here, Miss Letson? With due respect for the speakers thus far, I wish to enter this debate from a somewhat different angle. An approach closer to the truth, I believe, than what we have heard. Far removed from the threats of violence and defamation presented here tonight. Such threats have no place at civilized gatherings in a nation founded on democratic principles.” He paused, allowing this rebuff to Bates’s tactics to register with the audience.

“I am a God-fearing man,” Milburn continued. Elbert gave a loud sigh. “I worship my God each week at Trinity Church, as many of us do.”

“Mmm. An appeal to crass elitism, not always bad,” Elbert now reflected.

“It seems to me—and I’m more than willing to consult the Reverend Davis on this issue—that God made the earth for the glorification of man. God has given the great Falls at Niagara to man, for man’s benefit. In the sight of God, men are more important than waterfalls. In Genesis 1:26, the words are clear. Forgive me if I compress: ‘And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion … over all the earth.’

“Therefore we see that the question of ownership is irrelevant: God owns the waters, and gives them to man to do with what he will, for the benefit of others. Is there any greater benefit than the easing of backbreaking labor through the electrification of factories? Is there any greater benefit than the lighting of the darkness? Are these not amongst God’s greatest blessings? Is not the power that we produce at Niagara a holy thing—as blessed surely as the sight of water pouring over a cliff? Let us not forget that we are making light at Niagara. Is not light the symbol of God incarnate?” He paused, looking over the crowd with the persuasive sincerity of the attorney he was, playing us as if we were a jury. “And if light is the symbol of God incarnate, then electricity is a manifestation of the divine.”

Oh yes, I thought; let us make something more of Niagara than water falling over a cliff. Let us allow Niagara to transform the nation. God grant that one day we may walk across the riverbed in peace, without the surging water to entrap and haunt us.

“Yes, I know I wax philosophical. But most people truly do know me”—nodding toward Bates, Milburn treated us to his most charming smile—“as a practical man. So I shall continue in a practical vein: Like Mr. Bates, I believe that we have the power to create the future. Will we permit the vast, God-given natural resource that is Niagara to go to waste? Never. Never! Let us remember that Buffalo’s future and the future of Niagara are one and the same. When the work at Niagara is complete, we will become the greatest city in America. Let us embrace our future—and let us permit our future to embrace us.”

The audience’s uproarious approval effectively brought the meeting to a close. When I looked around, I saw Susannah Riley staring at John Milburn with a fixed expression of hatred in her eyes.

CHAPTER XVI

I
warned Francesca to tell Susannah to stop. Or at least to be less public. I could not be put in the position of defending her. “If the board comes to me with complaints,” I said, “I’ll have no choice but to let her go.”

We were walking along the second-floor balcony of the Market Arcade in the late afternoon, the Saturday after the lecture. We passed tiny shops filled with specialties, from the rarest cigars to the finest lace. Sunlight filtered through the skylight. The arcade led from elegant, refined Main Street to the rather different Washington Street, with its outdoor Chippewa Market. The Chippewa Market was a pastureland of carts and stalls frequented by women wearing babushkas and shawls who haggled over the price of live chickens. Shawls spanned cultures, however, and shawls had brought us to the Market Arcade today. Francesca was looking for a cashmere shawl, and she was in a self-indulgent, cashmere-shawl frame of mind.

“I have no control over Susannah,” she said with sardonic pride. “As the poets say, I can only love her.”

I caught myself on the verge of harrumphing but quickly stopped myself so as not to slip into the demeanor of Miss Maria Love. Reasonably I said, “If you love her, then you must try to protect her.”

“I can’t protect her. She makes her own decisions. I’ve offered her everything, I assure you, to get her into my grasp. I’ve even offered her a trip to Angkor Wat.”

“Angkor Wat! I thought that was
my
special reward. You’re certainly feckless in your affections.”

“No, just determined to get there. To Angkor Wat, I mean. But Susannah won’t even consider it. She can’t leave the city while the ‘battle for Niagara’ is going on; while she’s saving her little bit of the world.” Francesca shrugged mischievously. “I’ll just have to wait for her to lose all her teaching positions and all her painting commissions because of her ‘radical’ ideas, and then in poverty she’ll come begging to me to rescue her. You know how I love to rescue people. I even rescued you, don’t forget, bringing you here from Wellesley when you had not a place in the world or a penny to call your own.”

“Yes, indeed you did,” I acknowledged.

“So I shall certainly not urge Susannah to caution; I shall urge her to greater excess, to hasten the day of my victory!”

A group of ladies, wives of professional men we knew, approached us on the narrow balcony. Their skirts brushed together in a rustle of silk. Among them was Dr. Perlmutter’s youthful wife, beautifully attired in red plaid. Francesca took my arm and giggled intimately against my ear. The ladies passed us single-file with knowing glances.

When they were out of earshot, Francesca whispered, “How was that? More flirtatious than was even necessary, eh?”

“Oh, I’m most grateful.” And I was, even though part of me felt wretched that for so many years I’d required this subterfuge.

“Now, on to other matters,” she said. “Miss Love and Mr. Wilcox have bestowed a favor upon me.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Good! I’ve surprised you. I feared you might have heard a rumor of it.”

“Of what?”

“I’ve been appointed president of the Infant Asylum.”

“The Infant Asylum?” There was an Orphan Asylum on Virginia Street, but I’d never heard of an Infant Asylum.

“It’s a newly created subdivision of the Orphan Asylum. I suppose they had so many undeserving newborns left on the doorstep that they had to set up an organization solely for them. Miss Love wants the babies to have a building of their own, but that’s in the future. Right now they’re housed on a single floor of the Orphan Asylum, within squalling distance of the ‘diseased and infectious’ older children, as Miss Love describes them. Doesn’t she have a lovely gift for language? Anyway, the job will primarily involve begging my friends for donations. But there’ll be oversight too, and some administrative work. Would you like to know the charming way she informed me of my appointment?” Francesca squeezed my arm, obviously relishing the tale. “She didn’t politely ask if I might be interested. Oh no, not her. She invited me to tea at 184 and she said, ‘Frances,’ she always calls me Frances, ‘we both know you’ll never have children of your own, so you might as well look after these God-forsaken creatures.’” Francesca did an inspired imitation of Miss Love’s regal tones. “‘I wouldn’t dare send a young wife over there, with all that corruption and degradation, but
you
can handle it.’ Of course! Corruption and degradation—just my
métier.”

“Couldn’t you refuse her?”

“My dear Louisa.” She put her arm around me. “Refuse Miss Love? I’d never work as an architect again.”

I had known that the obedience rule applied to me; that it applied also to a woman of Francesca’s position was consoling.

“I went over there yesterday. To see it. The Infant Asylum.” She turned, leaning against the balustrade, looking all at once unsure of herself. “Louisa, it was like—it was like some kind of hell. The filth. The smell. The crying. And it seemed—well, I was too afraid to ask anyone, any of the matrons, I mean, but it seemed like all the babies were dying. That they were put there specifically so that they’d have a place to die. The matrons use the sheets for shrouds. That’s one of their biggest expenses, I found out when I looked at the account books: the sheets they use for shrouds.” Her eyes glinted as they teared. “Well, I was wondering … I mean”—she struggled to keep her composure—“seeing as
you’ll
never have children of your own, and
you’ll
never be a young wife, so we needn’t worry about corrupting and degrading
you
—I was wondering if you’d go there with me sometime and take a look at everything and give me advice. I can’t do it alone, it’s too much for me to do alone.” For once her irony had deserted her.

“Yes, of course, Francesca. Of course.” I leaned to hug her, touching my cheek to hers.

• • •

Later that afternoon, as I made my way up the Rushmans’ curving drive, I felt especially saddened by Francesca’s description of the Infant Asylum. I had a five o’clock appointment to meet Abigail’s parents to tell them my plan. The Rushmans lived in one of our newer mansions, the trees around it thin-limbed. The house was on North Street, our second most fashionable street after Delaware Avenue. However, the Rushmans’ abode was near the intersection with Richmond, perilously close to less elite thoroughfares. Perhaps for the Rushmans, being able to say “North Street” made up for any middle-class views from the windows.

The man of the house was visiting one of his stores, Mrs. Rushman explained as she received me alone in the library. I didn’t know where Abigail was. In this room, where I had placed the beginning of Abigail’s difficulties, the Persian rugs were thick and silent, the sofas deep-burgundy velvet, inviting and pliant. The leather-bound books in the floor-to-ceiling cases looked never-touched; undoubtedly they had been purchased in bulk and placed upon the shelves by height.

Motioning me to a straight-backed chair while she herself sank into one of the sofas, Mrs. Rushman asked bluntly, “What is it that you propose to do?” Her voice carried a hint of dismissal, as if she were addressing a social inferior. I steadied myself with the thought of her daughter; I was doing this for Abigail, not for the woman before me.

Equally blunt, I said, “I’ve determined that Abigail and her grandmother shall go to East Aurora after Abigail’s graduation and stay with the Roycrofters for the duration of her confinement. We shall announce that she has won a prestigious artistic fellowship, which you and your husband shall fund—anonymously, of course. She will spend the summer learning how to watercolor and practicing the art of illuminating manuscripts. She will be under the special protection of Mr. Elbert Hubbard and his most reputable wife, Bertha. Mr. Hubbard understands the circumstances and is willing to be of assistance. Despite his reputation for flamboyance, I assure you that he is trustworthy in this regard. I will take on the responsibility to speak with Dr. Perlmutter to make arrangements for the birth and adoption of the baby.”

There was a long pause. I heard a clock ticking. With each tick Mrs. Rushman’s broad features became more pointed and tight. “The money is not an issue, but East Aurora is totally unsuitable,” she said, her lips a thin line. “You’ve chosen badly, if I may say so, Miss Barrett.” There it was again, the not-so-subtle condemnation of my role. Did she assume this attitude to hide her shame and responsibility for what she had allowed to happen to Abigail? I could only hope so.

“Why is East Aurora unsuitable?”

“Abigail is not an artist.”

“She will learn to be. I imagine she’ll enjoy it. And East Aurora is lovely in the summer. Restful, I assure you,” I said, with what I hoped sounded like a warning.

“There has never been an artist in our family. It is completely unacceptable. You must find something else.”

My eyes narrowed. “Well, that is disappointing, Mrs. Rushman,” I said slowly. “I’m sorry you feel that way, because art is so fashionable for women these days.” I paused to let the notion sink in. “Witness Alice Glenny—Mrs. John Clark Glenny—called upon to paint the murals for the New York State Building at the exposition. And Evelyn Rumsey Cary—Mrs. Dr. Charles Cary—designing the official poster for the exposition. And what a beautiful poster it is! It would be impossible to find two women more … ladylike than Mrs. Glenny and Mrs. Cary. Two women more … welcomed at the Rumsey estate—and I’m speaking here of the
Bronson
Rumsey estate. Of course for Mrs. Cary, née Rumsey, the estate is her family home.” I sighed. “Both ladies have mentioned to me that they may one day offer Macaulay girls the opportunity to assist in their studios. What a chance for Abigail, gone to waste.”

This was a lie, but the two gracious ladies in question, both of whom frequented the Twentieth Century Club, would intuitively cover for me if faced by an assault from the likes of Mrs. Rushman.

“Really.” She bit her lower lip, mulling over the matter in this new and appealing light. “It’s true that Abigail has always leaned toward the artistic. Maybe I’ve been wrong to discourage her. She’s
very
talented, you know,” Mrs. Rushman assured me. “Mrs. Cary would be the first to recognize her talent, I’m sure. Yes.” She clapped her hands with childlike glee. “I’ll announce the award of Abigail’s prestigious artistic fellowship at dinner this evening. You can let me know how much money to send you whenever it’s convenient. Tonight we’re dining at the Freddy Coatsworths—Francesca Coatsworth’s second cousin,” she added with proud confidentiality. “Possibly you know the Freddy Coatsworths.” Her tone indicated that she was quite certain I did not. “Your paths most likely never cross, however, as they have only sons, not daughters.”

“Oh, Mrs. Rushman,” I said modestly, “in my position, I’m lucky enough to be on familiar terms with all the important families in town, daughters or no.”

When I returned home, a large pile of mail awaited me. I flipped through it at my desk, pulling out two items for immediate attention: a large envelope from Tom and a note from Franklin Fiske.

When I opened Tom’s envelope, however, I discovered that his message was nothing more than a note too, attached to a larger sheet of paper. After a moment’s confusion I realized that the large sheet was a mock-up for an inside page of tomorrow’s
Express
. The note, in Tom’s precise handwriting, read simply,
Dexter Rumsey sent this to me. I hope it sets your mind at ease
.

The article, marked as, filled less than a third of the space across the top of the page.
Determination in Park Tragedy
, the headline read. The article reported that the coroner, in an official report to be released on Monday, had unequivocally concluded that Karl Speyer’s death was accidental. The article went on to review the circumstances surrounding his death on March 5 and the stringent investigation conducted by the police. There was some discussion of the medical difference between death by drowning and death by exposure, which I skipped after a few words because the details made me queasy. The article concluded with a quote from Tom, in his capacity as director of the power project, to the effect that we might all rest more peacefully now, knowing this tragic matter was finally resolved.

I reread Tom’s note: Mr. Rumsey had sent this to him. He hoped it would set my mind at ease.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes to think. The coroner’s conclusion had a certain logic, but was it true? Moreover, did Tom believe it to be true, or did he know it to be false? Step by step I parsed the matter out. First, Mr. Rumsey had offered the
Express
the opportunity to print the story before the official findings were released. The
Express
was our most prestigious newspaper (Mark Twain had once been its editor), and it had notably abstained from the sensational speculations about Speyer that had filled most of the other papers. The
Express
could in fact be called Mr. Rumsey’s favorite newspaper. Undoubtedly Mr. Rumsey had dictated the placement of the story, where it would be noticed but not create a fuss.