Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

Freddie was about to mount his bicycle and go in search of an interview at the military encampment at Dexter Park when he noticed the mob gathering again. People were pointing excitedly in the opposite direction from the departed meat train. With a growing sense of horror, Freddie realized what they were pointing at. A milk train was moving slowly up the track toward them. The rear two cars of the train contained passengers. From where Freddie stood, he could see their faces pressed anxiously against the glass. They were mainly women and children. He noticed some of the rioters looking around for rocks. “Oh, my God! They wouldn’t!”

Mayhew’s face was grim. “Afraid they would, son. Better hope the coppers can stop ‘em.”

The police and marshals saw the source of the mob’s interest. They rushed to reach the engine but couldn’t move fast enough. Missiles were flying through the air—stones, slag, coupling pins, chunks of cinder, and even broken bits of wood. The air was torn by the sound of shattering glass, the voices of women screaming, and children crying. The engine compartment windows burst. A stone clipped the engineer on the temple, and he slid to the floor of the cab. Every window in the passenger cars was smashed as the occupants crouched down to shield themselves from flying slivers of glass.

The police began firing randomly into the mob. Several rioters slipped in pools of their own blood. A deputy marshal climbed onto the stairway of the engine compartment to defend the train. The engineer staggered to his feet in a superhuman effort to keep the train moving.

“Stay back or I’ll shoot!” the marshal shouted.

A youth jumped onto the bottom stair of the engine compartment. Freddie felt a chill go up his spine when he recognized the rioter. It was
Orlando
from the Hyperion factory—the dark-skinned boy with acid-burned hands.
Orlando
’s eyes held a crazed look. His clothing was torn and smeared with soot. He clutched an empty gin bottle in his left hand.

“Shoot, you coward, why don’t you shoot me!” the boy screamed.

The marshal hesitated.

Orlando
smashed the bottle and waved the jagged end in front of the marshal’s face. “You’re all cowards. You hide behind your badges and your guns and your money. Your time is coming! We’re gonna kill you all!”

Orlando
climbed another step, still waving the smashed bottle at the marshal. The deputy hesitated only a second longer. Then he shot the boy point-blank in the chest.

“No!” Freddie screamed and tried to run forward but Mayhew locked onto his arm and held him back. “Let it go, son. You can’t help him. Nobody can.”

Orlando
toppled backward into the arms of the stunned rioters. They set him down on the ground. One of them checked for a pulse. “He’s dead! You killed him!”

A roar rose from the mob. They crawled over the engine like ants until police at the back of the crowd started shooting again. The marshal ducked and ran. Instead of running toward the police line, he became disoriented and ran in the opposite direction. About a hundred rioters followed close on his heels.

“Oh, no,” Freddie gasped.

They chased the marshal into a vacant lot where they cornered him. He waved his pistol but the mob had picked up rocks and started stoning him before he could fire another shot. The marshal went down as the crowd lunged in, kicking and beating him.

By this time, the police had caught up from the rear. They fired into what remained of the mob. This time it scattered for good, leaving the injured strewn about the field of battle to fend for themselves or be hauled into custody.

Freddie abandoned his position and ran up to where the marshal had fallen. The reporter realized with a shock that the man was gray-haired, about sixty. “Is he...?” He looked questioningly at a woman who was kneeling beside the man, attempting to wipe the blood off his face.

She shook her head. “No, he’s beat up pretty bad though.” She turned to the nearest cop. “You better get him to a hospital fast.”

Several men raced over to carry the deputy marshal into a waiting cart. They sped off.

The train had continued its flight into the city, but Freddie ran over to where it had been, hoping to find
Orlando
. The boy’s body was gone. The reporter sank to his knees at the spot where the youth had fallen, disoriented by the sudden silence, too stunned to move.

He knelt there for what seemed like hours before he heard a noise behind him. Thinking it was a fresh wave of rioters, he jumped to his feet. It was only Mayhew.

“Here, son. Here’s your wheel.” The portly man handed the bicycle over to Freddie. “Nothing else to see here. They’ve moved on.”

Mayhew studied Freddie’s face, apparently noting his stricken expression. “You knew that boy, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I met him a few months ago. He lost his job during a strike at his factory. I guess his life was all he had left to lose.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Mayhew patted Freddie comfortingly on the back. “I think a lot of them that you saw here today were in the same boat as your friend. They don’t figure they have anything left to lose. Might as well get some of their own back while they can. Makes ‘em feel like for once in their lives, they’re calling the tune.” He held out a hand. “You take care now.”

Freddie watched Mayhew amble away before he mounted his bicycle to head north. He knew the mob had wandered in the opposite direction to make trouble but he had no heart to chase any more stories or witness any more savagery. He had seen enough to last a good long time.

Meanwhile as
Chicago
burned, George Pullman stood in the turret of his summer castle at
Thousand Islands
waiting for the winds to change.

Chapter 11—A Fair To Remember

The fires kindled during the afternoon of July fifth raged on into the evening, fed by the rioters’ insatiable appetite for destruction, but the biggest disaster was yet to come. Evangeline was teaching an evening literature course when the news reached Mast House. The
White
City
was ablaze! She immediately dismissed her class and, trailed by some of her more adventurous students, headed toward
Hyde Park
.

The Columbian Exposition, or
White
City
, as it was commonly known, had been a national attraction during the summer of 1893. It outshone even the Paris Exposition of 1878 for grandeur as twenty seven million people came to
Chicago
to witness the eighth wonder of the modern world.

Because the exposition buildings were wooden skeletons covered with a plaster-burlap mixture called staff, they were never intended to be permanent. There had been much speculation in the press regarding the fate of the
White
City
. The winter of 1894 weakened the abandoned structures, making them a hazard to the scores of homeless who took shelter and kindled fires there for warmth. Although the city fathers finally sold the buildings to a salvage company, no demolition had yet begun. If rumor held true about what was transpiring eight miles south of the city, the wrecking ball would not be required.

Since the Illinois Central had limited its passenger service during the ARU boycott, the city elevated train was the quickest means of making the journey. As was to be expected, the El was jammed with standing passengers. Evangeline could scarcely turn her head in the crush. She had become separated from her students who had squeezed into available spots in other cars.

“So, the
White
City
has found a way to reclaim center stage,” she thought morosely. Her feelings about the fair had always been mixed. While she admired the ingenuity that went into its design, she deplored the reason for its construction—a form of self-congratulation by the captains of industry who financed it. These same captains of industry with their high-handed labor practices were to blame for
Chicago
’s, and the nation’s, current economic woes.

“Does anyone know how it started?” asked a woman’s voice behind her.

Evangeline was pinned between two taller passengers and couldn’t turn to see the speaker. Answers floated in from all directions.

“I heard it started in the Terminal Station.”

“That’s right. Some little boys were playing and they came across a fire in a corner of the building. Tried to stamp it out but they couldn’t, so they ran for help.”

“Didn’t do much good though. The whole building went up in a matter of minutes. Now it’s spreading.”

The first woman’s voice rose again. “When did it start?”

“They say around six o’clock.”

Evangeline had begun teaching her class at six o’clock. She couldn’t maneuver into a position to consult the watch pinned to her shirtwaist, but it had to be nearly seven by now.

“Hope we get there in time for the rest of the show.” Appreciative laughter followed the comment.

Although speculation continued for the rest of the trip, no other salient facts emerged. Evangeline would have to see for herself.

Passengers first began to disembark at
Fifty Sixth Street
and
Stoney Island Avenue
—the northernmost entrance to the fairgrounds. Each succeeding cross street disgorged more spectators allowing Evangeline to breathe and turn around at last. She couldn’t locate any of her students and finally gave up on the idea of reassembling her group. Instead, she would have to strike off on her own. Since the blaze had begun in the Terminal Station which was at the south end of the fairgrounds, she reasoned she would get a better view by exiting the train at
Sixty Fourth Street
. When she passed through the entrance gates, she realized that the view was a bit too close for comfort. She was walking right toward the heart of the blaze.

Ahead of her and to the right, she could see that the Terminal Station had completely collapsed. A strong breeze was blowing from the southwest and sparks from the original fire had been carried to adjoining structures. The
Administration
Building
to the east of the station, which many considered the architectural jewel of the fair, was incinerated—its central dome and stately columns reduced to rubble.

The fire then jumped to the two buildings directly north—Electricity and Mining. Since only a narrow walkway separated the two, it was inevitable that the fire would spread from one to the other simultaneously. Firemen were battling the blaze from the path between the buildings as Evangeline approached. Their hoses drew water from the lagoon and the
Grand
Basin
—a purpose the fair’s planners had never anticipated. Evangeline could hear shouts among the firemen warning each other to relinquish their efforts and come out from between the buildings. She was sickened to see one of their horses collapse and expire from smoke inhalation. The firemen had to abandon it and run for their lives before the buildings caved in around them.

Just to the west of the main blaze, other firemen were attempting to save the
Transportation
Building
. They trained their hoses on the roof to good effect. Although part of the cornice was damaged, they kept the flames from taking the building.

“Nice evening for a stroll.”

Evangeline turned with a start. “Why, Bill Mason, what on earth are you doing here?”

A rumpled, middle-aged man with a cigar dangling from his lips stepped up beside her. “You know I’m a newshound, Miss LeClair. This is big news.”

Mason, a veteran reporter, had been instrumental in getting Freddie a job at the Gazette. He was a walking contradiction. A man of slovenly personal habits and razor keen powers of observation. Evangeline found him highly entertaining.

She eyed his cigar disapprovingly for a second. Mason’s taste in cigars ran toward the cheap and acrid. After some deliberation, Evangeline decided that it hardly made a difference in the charred atmosphere that surrounded them. “Of course, I should have known. Is Freddie here with you?”

“Nope, last I heard, Junior was sent down to the stockyards to cover the rioting this afternoon. Haven’t seen him since.”

“I hope he’s all right.” Evangeline’s voice held a note of concern.

“He’ll be fine. Had his wheel in case things got dicey.”

Evangeline stared at Mason in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that he rode into the fray on a bicycle?”

“That he did.” Mason rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “Though I have to say, for once, the boy’s idea made sense. With the streetcars and trains snarled up, it’s the fastest way to move around the city. As a matter of fact, this area right where we’re standing looked like a bicycle rally about an hour ago.”

“Really?”

“Must have been a thousand people on their wheels. I suppose they’d all been out in the parks for an evening ride and they saw smoke coming from the Terminal Station.” Mason puffed on his cigar speculatively. “It looks like they’ve moved farther north to follow the course of the fire.” He offered his arm to Evangeline. “That’s what we should be doing too, Miss LeClair. I’d like to be an eyewitness that lives to tell the tale.”

Evangeline smiled. “Quite right, Mr. Mason. Where do you propose we go?”

He pointed to a green space past the inferno. “People have been moving to the wooded isle. I don’t think any sparks will carry that far, and it’s a good piece of high ground for viewing the show.”

The two beat a hasty retreat from a shower of falling cinders.

As they walked toward their destination, Evangeline quizzed the reporter for details. “Rumor has it that the blaze started in the
Terminal
Building
.”

Mason nodded. “Everybody is in agreement about that, but nobody knows who’s responsible.”

“No chance of it being an accident?”

Mason smiled waggishly. “What do you think, Miss LeClair?”

Evangeline pursed her lips. “I think that on a day when angry mobs all over the south side are destroying railroad property, a fire kindled in the one building at the fairgrounds associated with the railroads can hardly be a coincidence.”

Mason paused to grind out his cigar with the toe of his boot. “Madam, you are as perspicacious as you are beauteous.”

“And you, sir, are a shameless flirt.” Evangeline laughed. “Have you been here all evening?”

They resumed their stroll.

“I got here about half past six, just as the first firemen were called in. You should have seen the
Administration
Building
go up. That was a sight. First, smoke belching out of the dome. Next, a column of fire shooting straight up in the air and then the whole thing collapsed. Not too many people had gotten here yet. Just the cyclists mostly. Funny thing though. You remember those gewgaws around the building?”

Evangeline stared at him with a puzzled expression. “The allegorical statuary?”

“That’s it. You’ve hit it. High falutin’ beaux-art nonsense. ‘Water Uncontrolled’ and so on. Well, what do you think but the last one standing, the one that resisted the longest before it went the way of the others, was the sculpture called ‘Fire Uncontrolled.’”

“You have a sharp eye for poetic irony, Mr. Mason.”

By now, they had reached their destination, crossing over the little bridge that spanned the lagoon and led to the wooded isle. The pair made for the rose garden on the southeast tip of the island since it faced directly on the blazing buildings.

Evangeline noticed clusters of people had taken up different vantage points on the grass. Some sat, others reclined, all were clearly entranced by the spectacle.

“Here’s another bit of irony, for you,” she offered.

Mason cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

“A year ago, crowds gathered on this very spot to witness the evening fireworks at the fair.”

Mason rubbed his chin speculatively. “After the show tonight, I’d say those other people didn’t get their money’s worth.”

Evangeline found herself laughing in spite of her best efforts to remain suitably grave.

Sounds of “ohhh” and “aaah” could be heard rising from the crowd around them—the same reaction one usually heard at a fireworks display.

By this time, the Mines and Electricity buildings had been reduced to ruin and the fire had jumped to Manufacturing and Liberal Arts. The immense structure stood directly east of the spectators’ vantage point and the flames were blasting through it with the speed of an express train.

Evangeline could see fireman dousing the roof of the
Government
Building
, which stood next in line to the north, in the hopes it might be saved. She turned to look over her shoulder. The sky was still light enough that she was able to
 
observe how large the crowd had grown. People covered the island and then lined its perimeter on the opposite shore. Beyond them, other crowds filled the gap back to the
Horticulture
Building
and then formed a ring as far east as the lakefront. Women, men, and children of every conceivable size, shape, and station in life.

“Why, there must be a hundred thousand people here!” she exclaimed.

Mason followed her gaze. “I believe you’re right. Quite a turnout. Too bad nobody thought to charge admission for this. Might have netted a few more pennies for the gray wolves on the city council.”

They moved along the island to track the progress of the fire from the south end of the Manufacturing and Liberal Arts building to the north. It consumed roofing, cornices and pillars as it went. With a mighty crash, the roof of Machinery Hall collapsed to the south at the same moment as the last columns of the Liberal Arts structure toppled.

A small, disappointed voice rose out of the crowd. “Oh, it’s all over.”

A stillness settled over the island for a few moments. Then, here and there, people roused themselves for the journey home. Comments could be heard from every quarter as the multitude surged toward the exits to await the next northbound El.

“Wasn’t it grand?”

“What a glorious sight!”

“A magnificent spectacle!”

“A noble end.”

“Better this than the wrecking ball.”

Mason offered his arm once more. “Can I escort you back to the city? I have to go to the office and write this up for tomorrow’s edition.”

“What a fickle town
Chicago
is.” Evangeline sighed as she took the reporter’s arm. “Two years ago, everybody was in a lather to see the buildings erected. Now they’re even more excited to see them destroyed.”

Mason paused to light another cigar but said nothing.

“Where do you suppose it will end?” Evangeline asked as they resumed their journey.