Lawless (59 page)

Because their places would be held, he and Julia felt free to walk a while. She took his arm as they strolled. It’s simply marvelous, isn’t it?”

“It is. I wish I’d found some way for the
Union
or Kent and Son to contribute to the celebration.”

In a sympathetic way, she asked, “Oh, dear, are you still fretting about that, too?”

“Endlessly. I haven’t had a single good idea.”

“Well, sometimes good ideas pop up when and where you least expect them.”

“That’s true.” But he didn’t sound hopeful.

As they walked on, Julia said, “My, this is a huge exhibition.”

Gideon was ready with the facts; Payne had put one man to work assembling them for the benefit of all
Union
reporters who would be writing stories in Philadelphia during the summer.

“Four hundred and fifty acres. Almost two hundred buildings. The exhibition was funded by capital stock issued by the Centennial Board of Finance. Other contributions came from Congress, the states and territories, the—Julia, why the devil are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I made a remark and you launched into a lecture. Mr. Payne has really infused you with a passion for spreading knowledge.”

Gideon turned pink. “Evidently he has. I didn’t mean to rattle on.”

“Where’s the Corliss engine, sir?” Carter asked.

“In Machinery Hall. We’ll see it right after the opening, ceremony.”

The boy’s question reminded Gideon that on several occasions his own son had asked about the engine, the exhibit which thus far had generated the greatest interest among press and public. Will had also asked when Gideon would take him to see it. Julia had been absolutely right last night. Because he wanted to avoid Margaret, he’d also been neglecting the children. He’d start putting that to rights the moment he got home. He’d arrange a family outing to Philadelphia.

“I’m anxious to see your brother’s painting,” Julia said, clinging tightly to Gideon’s arm so as not to be buffeted by the crowds on the footpaths. Most of the opening day visitors were Americans, but Gideon also saw some whose faces or accents clearly identified them as representatives of foreign governments. Nearly every major nation had built a pavilion. For an admission price of fifty cents, a visitor could sample not only a century of American culture, but the cultures of Europe and Asia as well.

“It’s in the Art Hall,” Gideon said, leafing through a guidebook he’d purchased in advance. “That direction—no, wait. I believe Matt wrote that his picture would be in the Art Annex. The Art Hall is that pseudo-Renaissance palace. It will stay here after everything else comes down. American artists aren’t being shown there, however. They’ve been relegated to the Annex. Matt was sore about it.”

Gideon was intensely proud of his brother’s growing reputation. He had never seen Matt’s immense painting, which had been crated and shipped directly from London. He did know the picture was titled
Wilmington.
Another letter from Matt had said that the nature of the teeming dockside scene, the uniforms on some of the figures, and the fog gray funnel of a steamship towering in the dark background would make it clear to any spectator that a slightly different title would have been more accurate:

“Wilmington—War Time” would be better but Im told this exposition is suposed to unite not divide the contry so I’ll leave the tittle what it is. I dont care one way or another whether I serve the cause of the “Union” no Pun meant there Gideon, I have no strong feelings for the contry. I take that back I have strong feelings of dislike. Let “Union” go hang. I submited the Wilmington picture because it came out well. Its a war scene but I can only paint what I remember of America, and I remember that dam wasteful war a lot better than I care to, almost as much as I remember Dolly god bless her. She made the picture posible. She made all of them posible, she is in evry one of them. Someday I will explain what I mean, but I cant take time now, a very handsome creatur the Duchess of T. is waiting for me.

The three visitors were soon caught up in the exciting sights and sounds of the exhibition. The colorful pavilions were encircled by a special narrow-gauge railroad on the perimeter of Fairmount Park. Visitors could ride around the entire exhibition for only five cents. The Pennsylvania line had built the narrow-gauge. Gideon sourly supposed that Tom Scott, the bandit who presided over the Pennsylvania, would somehow find a way to make his exposition railroad pay just as handsomely as his regular one did.

“Isn’t there a woman’s building on the grounds?” Gideon said as they started back toward the Main Hall. Julia put the tip of her tongue in her cheek.

“Oh, you remembered. Indeed there is. After you go back to New York, I plan to spend a week working there. The pavilion has its own printing office. A newspaper for women will be written and published right on the premises all summer.”

Carter’s handsome face broke into a grin. “How soon are we going to the woman’s building? Right after we look at the Corliss engine? I want to see the butter statues.”

Gideon pulled a face. “Surely you’re not serious.”

“Don’t snicker so!” Julia said. “The head of a milkmaid done in butter might be quite attractive.”

“And if it isn’t, think of the people it will feed.” She pretended to hit him with her gloved hand. He laughed and went on, “Butter sculpture. Matt doesn’t know the meaning of avant-garde.”

The opening ceremonies began at ten fifteen, near the lagoon in front of the Main Hall. First the orchestra ran through a short program of airs. During one of the numbers Gideon scribbled a reminder. He needed to locate and look at the portion of the huge copper-clad statue which was being paid for by the French people as a gesture of friendship. The statue was the work of the sculptor Bartholdi. Liberty’s forearm, hand and upraised torch had been rushed to completion and shipped to America for the exposition, although it would be years before the entire 151-foot-high work would be finished. Where it would finally be erected, no one yet knew.

Wild cheering broke out. Gideon looked up. A reporter near him sneered, “The grand panjandrum himself. Or should I say the chief thief?”

Stocky, plain-faced President Grant had just appeared on the platform. From all the applause and shouting, no one would have guessed he had a tarnished reputation.

Soon the formal program started. The orchestra played a special march composed for the Centennial by Richard Wagner. Then came a new hymn by John Greenleaf Whittier and John Paine. This was followed by speeches, and then a cantata by Southern poet Sidney Lanier and Northern composer Dudley Buck—nice symbolic touch, Gideon thought. Finally the President delivered a brief, banal address which concluded, “I declare the international exhibition now open.”

A gigantic flag was unfurled on the front of the Main Hall. And when the choir began the “Hallelujah Chorus,” even the cynical professionals around Gideon grew quiet. At the end of the chorus, the artillery boomed and the spring breeze caught the flag and Gideon felt tears in his eye and a prickling along his spine.
It was
a strong and good country. It had survived a devastating internal war and all the other calamities of the past, and come through to show its strength and pride by means of this grand, glorious—and occasionally gauche—festival. It was a strong and good country despite the scoundrels who tried to pervert its principles and take advantage of the freedom it offered.

If only he could think of some tangible way—some project or piece of writing—to express his convictions. But his mind remained a blank.

Machinery Hall was designed to display American technology, from small sewing machines to huge howitzers. The featured exhibit was a gigantic, 1500-horsepower steam engine with two vertical walking beams standing parallel.

At the conclusion of the outdoor ceremonies, people began to stampede toward Machinery Hall. They ignored the hundreds of police and militiamen who attempted to funnel them to the doorways in an orderly way. Shortly the police and militia cordons were disrupted. Gideon found himself fighting as hard as the next person to jam through an entrance in order to be present for the start-up of the Corliss engine. He searched for Julia and Carter but couldn’t locate them. They’d agreed to meet immediately after the indoor ceremony.

At last he squeezed inside. He joined a stream of reporters rushing to a special press area marked off by velvet ropes. President Grant and the bearded Emperor of Brazil were already on the steam engine’s control platform. The platform was raised several steps above the floor of the hall. A man with a proud expression—the designer and engineer, Corliss, Gideon supposed—stood close to the presidential party.

Gideon tilted his head back. The top of the mammoth machine looked three stories high. As yet he had no statistics on the Corliss; he was supposed to gather those and bring them back to New York.

For a newsman, the faces of those present were almost a more interesting study than the engine itself. Gideon saw wonder on nearly every countenance. It was apparent that the Corliss would be the fair’s number one attraction. He had guessed wrong, then. He’d thought the most popular exhibit would be an astonishing new device called a telephone, which was to be demonstrated by its inventor, Alexander Bell.

He was busy making notes when he had a sensation of being watched. He glanced up. He was so surprised, he almost dropped the little block of paper. From the other side of the Corliss platform where he stood among a group of equally well-dressed visitors, a man was indeed watching him.

It was Thomas Courtleigh.

The auburn hair had grayed slightly. The face was a shade paler than he remembered. But even at a distance, Courtleigh’s hazel eyes had a compelling power. They almost refused Gideon permission to glance away.

Five years, he thought. It had been nearly that long since he’d stormed into Courtleigh’s mansion. And what had that act of bravado accomplished? Exactly nothing.

Gideon had yet to catch the railroad man committing any crime of which he could be convicted. Twice he’d dispatched a trio of reporters to Chicago to look into Courtleigh’s personal and public life. Both times they’d returned empty handed. There were rumors in plenty, but no facts. If Thomas Courtleigh broke the law—and most business tycoons did, one way or another—skilled attorneys and intermediaries covered the track very well.

Both times, Gideon had recalled Strelnik’s prediction that he’d become so frustrated attempting to curb a man like Courtleigh, he’d finally resort to violence. Both times, he did feel something close to that kind of frustration. But of course having the impulse wasn’t the same as doing the deed.

He hadn’t thought of Courtleigh’s threats for months. He’d assumed the railroad president had forgotten them. Yet now Courtleigh was staring at him with a fury as great as that which Gideon remembered from just after the fire. Odd.

“Are you both ready? Then, Your Majesty, will you be so kind as to turn that handle?”

Gideon wrenched his gaze back to the dignitaries. Dom Pedro, resplendent in his imperial uniform dripping with gold epaulettes and frogging, turned the indicated handle. Slowly, with a hiss of steam that grew increasingly louder, the first of the parallel walking beams began to move.

Down, then up. Down, up. The shaft sank into the ground far beneath the building, then rose from it again.

An ovation shook the hall. People whistled and stamped. Corliss’ great machine would provide the power for all the other, smaller machines on display.

“Now, Mr. President
—
will you turn your handle, sir?”

With a nervous smile, Grant complied. The second beam started its slow downward motion. Soon the rhythm quickened. With both walking beams in operation, the floor of the hall vibrated. Another, louder ovation burst forth. The opening ceremonies were over.

Gideon tried to jot a few descriptive phrases, but he kept thinking of Courtleigh. When he glanced back to the spot where the W & P president had been standing, the group had rearranged itself. Courtleigh was no longer visible.

Soon the crowd began to disperse to take in the exhibits.

Gideon headed for the rendezvous point he and Julia had agreed upon—the soda fountain located near the bandstand in the Main Hall.

As he walked along, he still had the uneasy sensation of being observed. And some key detail of Courtleigh’s expression or appearance troubled him. But the detail remained elusive no matter how hard he thought about it.

Late in the day they took a crowded horsecar back to their hotel on Walnut Street. Julia and Carter went to their room; Carter said he was tired. Gideon used a desk in his room to arrange his notes and begin writing his opening paragraphs. He had to take his dispatch to the telegraph office by ten-thirty. Theo Payne was holding space on tomorrow’s front page for an account of the opening day.

He met Julia in the lobby at half past six. She looked refreshed. She said Carter wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. He’d worn himself out tramping through the exhibits and was still asleep.

In the dining room, over grilled sole and the liebfraumilch she’d taught him to enjoy, he asked her whether she’d seen Courtleigh in Machinery Hall. She hadn’t. News of his presence clearly upset her.

“Why would he be here, Gideon? His line has no official connection with the Exhibition, does it?”

“No, but it is opening day. Anyone’s free to come.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“He also has contacts to maintain in the railroad community. The industry’s in a turmoil these days. Mullins, one of our men who covers business news, keeps bringing in rumors that some of the trunk lines intend to meet secretly to form a pool.”

“Form what?”

“A pool. A group composed of several cooperating lines. Usually a pool’s organized to fix freight rates and otherwise squeeze out any competition the pool members don’t want. Sometimes those in the pool fund a war chest any of them can dip into if they have trouble with a strike. The fund usually pays for blacklegs. Strikebreakers. For months, Mullins has been hearing that a new pool’s to be started. And wages cut on every line involved.”