by Lynn Austin
I started to protest, but Aunt Matt overruled me. “Yes, thank you, Emily. We accept. That’s very kind of you.” I clenched my fists in frustration and disappointment. I couldn’t impose upon Aunt Matt’s friend by asking her to stop at LaSalle Street to visit my mother.
By the time we arrived home, I’d recovered from my shock and no longer felt faint. My heart was beating normally again—until Aunt Birdie greeted me at the door with an envelope.
“Violet! You’ve received another letter.”
“W-who is it from?”
“Someone named”—she read the return address—“Herman Beckett.”
“Oh no.” I closed my eyes in dismay. I had forgotten all about him.
“Who is he, dear?” Aunt Birdie asked.
“A gentleman I know from back home in Lockport. Mr. Beckett courted me a few times before I came here.”
“Oh, how nice.”
I ripped open the envelope without benefit of an opener, guessing what it might say. Herman’s printing was so small and neat it might have been made on a typing machine. The somber black ink nearly bled through the page. I scanned it quickly, wincing at every sentence.
“You have such a long face, Violet. I do hope it isn’t bad news,” Aunt Birdie said. “Is your young man fighting the Rebels?”
“No, Mr. Beckett isn’t fighting. He’s coming to call on me this weekend. He wants me to go to the fair with him and his sister.”
“Don’t you care to go with him?”
I not only didn’t care to go with Herman Beckett, I didn’t care if I ever returned to the fair.
“No,” I sighed, “but I already promised him that I would go. My father gave Herman permission to court me. He likes Herman.”
And so did Maude O’Neill, which was reason enough for me to hate him. But Herman was also my best source of information on Maude and my best hope of proving that she had murdered her first husband. If I wanted to stop Father’s wedding, I had better not eliminate Herman from my life just yet.
“I suppose I’ll go with him,” I said.
“Oh, how nice.”
That night I tried to sort out my thoughts by writing in my diary. I felt so confused. Suitors seemed to be piling up like cordwood in the three short weeks I’d lived in Chicago. I doodled on the page as I contemplated my gentlemen callers.
Nelson Kent was first and foremost. I did love his splendid life— most of the time—the food and the dancing, if not the incessant pretending. But I suspected that he was really in love with Katya, and that he was using me to gain his father’s fortune. His actions might be deceitful, but they were no worse than making me an accomplice in a theft ring.
Stop thinking about Silas McClure!
Louis Decker lived a world away from Nelson Kent. Louis was doing something worthwhile with his life, helping the poor and needy. But I had no desire to join him in that work if it involved slaving in a kitchen, regardless of how worthwhile it might be. I had promised to help Louis tomorrow, and I should have stayed home today and practiced the piano. Then I never would have discovered what a no-good dirty-rotten scoundrel Silas McClure really was. At least Louis Decker was honest and upright and law-abiding, unlike …
I pushed Silas from my thoughts a second time.
And now Herman Beckett would reenter my life, arriving this weekend to take me to the fair. Maybe he would behave differently while on a holiday in the city. Maybe he would be more relaxed, less somber. I would have to take care not to play my “choosing” game with him. Herman didn’t have a playful, imaginative bone in his body. He had become quite upset when I’d asked him if he’d rather be a horse or a carriage. Silas, on the other hand, had loved my questions. “Ask me another one, Violet …”
“Stop it!” I said aloud.
Silas McClure was part of a gang of thieves. Yet I liked him the best—stupid me. He was the easiest one to talk to, with no pretending— if you didn’t count pretending to be respectable when he was really a rogue. Or pretending that “Josephine” was a woman. But Silas was fun. He made my heart race and my cheeks turn pink. He had actually eaten rattlesnake… .
“Stop it!” I would have nothing more to do with Silas McClure, even if he did love my questions.
I quickly flipped to the next page in my diary. I didn’t have to decide tonight who I would marry, did I? I refused to worry about Aunt Agnes’ warning that my beauty was fading or that I would be an old maid by the age of twenty-one. I had mysteries to solve. After all, that was the reason I had come to Chicago in the first place.
I wrote Mysteries to Solve on the top of the page. I had arrived in town with two of them and had made no progress at all in solving either one.
1. Why did Mother leave us? Where is she?
2. Did Maude O’Neill murder her first husband? How can I stop the wedding?
Instead, I had accumulated even more mysteries:
3. Why did Father change from being one of Mr. Moody’s Yokefellows to being indifferent about religion?
4. Why are Grandmother and Father estranged? What were the “sorrows” she mentioned in her life with my grandfather? Why won’t Father let her talk about my mother?
5. Was Aunt Matt’s fiancé, Robert Tucker, really a thief, or was Aunt Birdie simply rambling? Did Mr. Tucker get caught? Is he in prison?
Once again, my mind drifted back to thoughts of the thieving rogue Silas McClure. I quickly dismissed them.
6. Does Nelson Kent really love Katya, or is he using her? Is he using me?
7. And speaking of being used—is Silas McClure using me, or does he truly have feelings for me? And if he does care for me, then why didn’t he tell his thieving friends to get lost so that we could stay at the fair?
I drew a line through the last question, crossing it off my list as the answer occurred to me: Silas and I couldn’t stay at the fair without a chaperone.
My mind felt like a tangle of briars. The more I struggled to unsnarl things, the more ensnared I became. And those briars had thorns.
I turned off the lamp and pulled the pillow over my head. I could hear a horse trotting down the street outside my window, and I wished it could be my imaginary fair-haired lieutenant coming to rescue me. When the sound of horse hooves faded and the silence returned, I heard Aunt Birdie’s feathery voice whispering in my mind.
“Make certain you marry for love, dear.”
Chapter
16
Thursday, June22, 1893
Grandmother and I waited for Louis Decker outside the Chicago Evangelistic Society’s stern brick building on Thursday afternoon. It was near her church, which was on the corner of Chicago Avenue and LaSalle—that tantalizing street. I checked the house numbers while we waited and saw that we were many blocks north of my mother’s address. Would I ever have a chance to search for her?
The door to the Evangelistic Society opened, and a group of young men surged through it, their voices loud with excitement. I thought one of them might be Louis—they were so much like him in their intensity and passion—but he wasn’t among them. They politely tipped their hats to Grandmother and me and continued on their way, their conversation sprinkled with references to books of the Bible like powdered sugar on a pancake: “In Corinthians it says … Yes, but in Ephesians … What about Paul’s letter to the Galatians?”
“I think it’s wonderful that you’re willing to help Mr. Moody’s campaign this way, Violet.”
I turned my attention back to my grandmother. “I hope Louis isn’t disappointed in me. I’m not a very accomplished pianist.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Why did everyone seem to have more confidence in my musical ability than I did?
“What does the Chicago Evangelization Society do?” I asked, gesturing to the building behind us. “Did they build this place just for the fair?”
“No, it’s a school, dear, where they train people to do mission work. The students are just ordinary men and women from all walks of life who will eventually s
pread out to evangelize the city and the nation. It used to be called the May Institute because classes met only one month a year—in May. But the school became a year-round institution nearly four years ago.”
“So Louis Decker is a student here?”
“Mmm-hmm. And now that the World’s Exposition is here in town, it’s the perfect opportunity for him and the others to reach people from all over the world.”
The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and it seemed as if someone had snuffed out the gaslights. I glanced up and saw dark, heavy clouds erasing the blue sky like words from a chalkboard.
“Where did those clouds come from?” I asked. “The sun was shining when we left home.” Grandmother looked up at the sky and winced.
“The weather is so changeable here in Chicago. I do hope this storm blows over.”
“Do you think Louis will cancel his plans if it rains?” I hoped so. In my mind, this was certain to be more of an ordeal than an adventure.
“Oh, I doubt that he would do that. We probably should have brought our umbrellas.”
Wagons and horsecars had been coming and going along the street as we talked, but a large open carriage, pulled by two horses, suddenly drew to a halt in front of us. I was surprised to see Louis Decker driving it. The carriage had a canopy for shade and was designed for passengers. A flatbed freight wagon carrying a small wooden shipping crate drew to a halt behind it.
“Violet! You came!” Louis leaped down from the seat and fastened the reins to the hitching post. “Thanks for bringing her, Mrs. Hayes. Are you ladies ready to go?”
“Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it all week,” Grandmother replied. I said nothing. My apprehension had far outweighed my enthusiasm this past week.
“My friends Curtis and Jack are coming too,” Louis said. “They should be here any minute. Do you mind waiting?”
“I don’t mind,” I told him. “Maybe you can explain what you’d like me to do in the meantime.”
“We’re going to drive these Gospel Wagons around and advertise some of the services Mr. Moody will be holding this weekend. I’ve got a stack of free tickets to give away too.We always start with some music to draw people’s attention. That’ll be your job, Violet, making the music.”
“What will I use for a piano?”
“It’s right there.” He pointed to the freight wagon. The crate was about three feet high and four feet wide, much too small to hold a piano. “It’s a traveling organ,” he explained.
“Inside that box?”
“No, the box is the organ. Watch this.” He climbed onto the wagon and undid the latches, folding back the top to reveal a small five-octave keyboard.
“That’s amazing!”
With the top of the crate folded back, the inside of the lid became the front of the box, facing the audience. It had a Bible verse painted on it:
God so LOVED the world that HE GAVE His
Only begotten
Son that WHOSOEVER BELIEVETH in Him shall not
Perish but HAVE
Everlasting
Life
“See? It spells GOSPEL,” Louis said. “And that verse is the heart of the good news we’re sharing. Gospel means ‘good news.’ It’s what the angel at Bethlehem came to announce when Christ was born. ‘Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born … a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.’
” My grandmother ran her fingers down the letters that spelled GOSPEL. “This is very clever,” she said.
Louis introduced us to Richard, the wagon driver, who was also a student. While Louis was closing the packing crate, his friends Curtis and Jack bounded out of the building, their faces alive with excitement. All of these young men oozed so much passion and fervor that I couldn’t help wondering where it all came from. I compared their lively faces to the bored, aloof expressions that Nelson and his friends always displayed, and decided that if Louis could have bottled up his enthusiasm and sold it as an elixir like Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder, he could have made a fortune. Herman Beckett from back home in Lockport could have used a dose or two as well.
Jack and Curtis unhitched the reins and took over the driver’s seat. Louis helped Grandmother and me into the back of the carriage, then sat down alongside me.
“Here’s Ira Sankey’s songbook,” he said, handing me a hymnal. Several more were stacked beneath the seat. “I’m sorry I didn’t get this music to you sooner, but I believe you’ll find that the songs are very simple to play.”
I leafed through the book as the carriage began to move and saw that he was right. Most of the key signatures were simple, without too many sharps and flats. I began to feel a bit more confident— while remaining mindful of my disgraceful performance the last time I had worked with Louis.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Mr. Moody divided the city into districts with a church headquarters in each one. We’re going to our assigned district so we can let everyone know about this weekend’s services.”
“So we’re like those barkers who come to town before the circus arrives and try to drum up business?” I had hoped to elicit a smile from Louis, but he nodded earnestly.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re like. Except there are several shows to choose from. Our evangelistic teams hold as many as 125 services on a single Sunday, all over the city.”
I heard the first few plops of rain hitting the carriage roof as we plodded along. I stuck my hand out the open side and drew it back, sprinkled with raindrops.
“It’s starting to rain,” I said, hoping we could turn back. Neither Louis nor my grandmother seemed to hear me.
“Mr. Moody isn’t afraid to venture into the more disreputable areas of Chicago,” my grandmother told me. “He even held a service in the Haymarket Theater.”
“Where is that?”
“It might as well be hell itself,” Louis said. “The Haymarket is surrounded by saloons and … well, I’m sure you don’t want to know what else.” He blushed so deeply that I knew exactly what he meant. Bawdy houses.
“Is that where we’re going?” Now I really wanted to turn back.
“I would never ask you to venture there, Miss Hayes. Even though the Lord has promised that His angels will surround us.”
“I’m surprised that Mr. Moody—and the Lord—don’t distance themselves from such places.”
“No, no. It’s just the opposite. Jesus said it’s the sick people who need a physician, not the healthy ones. Mr. Moody certainly doesn’t approve of such places, but that’s exactly where the Gospel is needed. People matter the most to God. This campaign is all about finding people, regardless of their situation in life, and letting them know that God loves them. And not just the poor and the downtrodden, but even pickpockets and thieves and other criminals.”
I knew a few criminals who needed a dose of religion.
“My sister Matilda showed me one of Mr. Moody’s newspaper advertisements this morning,” Grandmother said. “His service was listed right alongside Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show.”
“That’s because the people who frequent those amusements are the very people we’re trying to reach,” Louis said.
The neighborhoods rapidly deteriorated as we clopped along at a steady rate. Even if I had been blindfolded, I would have recognized the slums by their smell. To make matters worse, our carriage seemed to lack a proper set of springs, and we bounced and jostled unmercifully in the rutted, unpaved streets. Then I smelled something truly horrific and saw a dead horse rotting in the street, covered with flies and maggots.
“Oh! That’s awful!” I fumbled for a handkerchief to cover my nose and mouth. I wanted to jump off and run home.
“The city is supposed to collect the garbage regularly,” Grandmother said, “but as you can see—and smell—they tend to skip the poorer neighborhoods. And I’m sure you can also tell that not all of these tenements have been connected to the city’s sewer system yet.”
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br /> “I can’t do this… .” I mumbled into my handkerchief. No one seemed to hear me. Nor did they seem to hear the rain plopping on the carriage roof, faster and faster, like popping corn.
“The crowds are coming to Chicago in record numbers this summer,” Louis said, “from all around the world.”
“This fair is a God-given opportunity to win souls,” Grandmother agreed.
“Mr. Moody has been traveling all over the world for the past twenty-five years, and now the world is traveling right to his doorstep. This will be one of his greatest evangelistic campaigns ever.”
The carriage slowed to a halt when we came upon two boys, no more than ten or eleven years old, fist-fighting in the middle of the rubbish-strewn street. One boy’s face was already bloodied. A dozen more youths surrounded them, cheering them on and blocking our path.
“Look at those poor little souls,” my grandmother said. Louis and Curtis jumped from our carriage and waded into the melee.
“Boys, listen—” Louis began. Within seconds, the kids scattered and vanished. He returned to the carriage, shaking his head in despair as our ride resumed.
“God loves them so much, and He longs to gather them in His arms as His children, and they don’t even know it. These kids live such hard lives with so many needs, but their greatest need is for a loving Savior. I get overwhelmed when I see them … and I feel such a sense of urgency that I can scarcely sit still.”
I couldn’t sit still either, but it was because I wanted to jump off this rump-sprung carriage seat and run toward fresh air. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get past my own discomfort and see these people the way Louis did?
At the end of the block, we turned onto a wider thoroughfare lined with market stalls and jammed with people. The rain was falling steadily now. A few of the pedestrians had umbrellas, but most of them seemed oblivious to the rain as they went about buying and selling. Perhaps this was the only way they could take a weekly bath.
