by Deeanne Gist
In the week Cullen had spent preparing his exhibit, the layout of the Court of Honor had become so deeply ingrained in his mind that even if he closed his eyes, he could see all the guard perused. To Cullen’s left stretched Machinery Hall—his home away from home for the next six months. To his right was the Electricity Building with Edison’s seventy-foot Tower of Light inside. Behind him, an abyss of mud extended to an avenue a city block wide, with the epic Manufactures Building—reputed to be four times larger than the Roman Colosseum—on one side and the Agricultural Building on the other. Between the two lay a miniature lake known as the Basin. Blue, white, and yellow gondolas glided across its surface, giving it a Venetian flair, their cheery colors striking a bright note in the foggy mist.
COURT OF HONOR AND GRAND BASIN AS VIEWED FROM PERISTYLE
Beyond the Basin, a peristyle—where each state of the Union had its own column and sculptured figure—formed an open barrier between the park and Lake Michigan. Gray gulls wheeled and rode cork-like on the water, quarreling with the ducks that paddled there. Breakers charged the wall, flinging up their white spray as if they too wanted to see the festivities.
He scanned the faces of the men and women pressing around him. No sign of Mrs. Harvell. Instead, he saw old men with snuffboxes, young men with their best girls, women with babies in their arms, men wearing rubber raincoats, and young girls in gay attire.
Voices rose in distress as thousands of feet continued to trample through the muck. A man tried to wrench his stuck galoshes out of the mud, only to have his foot come free, leaving the rubber boot behind, its sides quivering. The hems of ladies’ skirts gave them endless anxiety, either having to be lifted or face getting damp and soiled.
It was a good thing Wanda hadn’t come. She’d have been frightened by all the sights, the sounds, and the very thought of being at the center of tomorrow. Still, he missed her, and it was only May 1st. November had never seemed so far away.
Someone from behind accidentally shoved him into the Columbian Guard.
“Steady, there,” the guard barked.
Straightening, Cullen mumbled an apology and glanced over his shoulder. Being a full head taller than most, he was able to see over the profusion of black derby hats and lacy women’s confections filling every available inch between him and the Basin. He had no prayer of finding Mrs. Harvell among them. The bobbing heads formed a human mosaic and spread clear back to some curved bridges, then across those bridges and on to the Manufactures Building on one side and the Agricultural Building on the other.
OPENING DAY CROWD
Balconies, porticos, and roofs blossomed with spectators. The peristyle held moving figures thick to the right and left of each column.
In spite of the wind, men climbed up ropes and improvised ladders to the dizzying pinnacles of Machinery Hall. They slid into perilous places on the dome of the Agricultural Building and stood in every nook of the Administration Building, hugging its statues, turrets, and parapets.
Cullen shook his head. Two years ago Jackson Park had been nothing more than morass and sand barrens. Today it held an entire city of stupendous buildings made of hastily constructed shells sprayed with a white, Alhambra-like veneer made from plaster of paris. For the sake of the men now clinging to its towers, he hoped the plaster of paris held.
A fluttering on the northeast corner of the Administration Building caught his eye. Looking up, he watched as the president’s blue flag, with white eagle and stars, shook itself free. President Cleveland had arrived at the park.
Cullen’s cheer joined the ones around him, and a single ray of sunlight pierced the clouds, bringing another round of cheers. Within ten minutes an opening directly in front of the Administration Building heralded the president, members of his cabinet, the presidents of the fair, a descendant of Columbus, and a few government officials. But Cullen’s attention was completely captured by President Cleveland.
He was almost as tall as Cullen and a lot rounder around the middle. A silk hat somewhat the worse for wear covered his balding head, while his famous mustache covered his mouth.
A mighty bellow rose alongside Cullen’s whistle. As the president moved within earshot, the man beside Cullen shouted, “How are you, Grover!”
The great man smiled, walked boldly up the platform stairs to a plush leather chair reserved for him, and sat with confidence. The notables bunched up behind him, surveying the sea of humanity before them.
An orchestra burst into the “Columbian March.” Its notes caught between the facades of the two palaces and sent a rebounding echo down to the peristyle. In the excitement, the crowd pressed forward.
Locking his knees, Cullen leaned back, struggling to keep from being pushed into the guards.
He might as well have argued with a cyclone. Standing as he was at the vortex where all currents joined, it was only a matter of seconds before he and those next to him were shoved forward, sweeping away the once-formidable blue line of Columbian Guards as though they were fragile reeds.
The mob poured into the previously empty space. The eager hundreds behind jostled forward, and an overwhelming force carried the blockade up to the very edge of the platform. A guard grabbed Cullen’s shirtfront and slung him back, but nothing could check the human stampede.
A woman several yards away held up her little one, shrieking to the people in the grandstand to save her baby. Another woman trapped against the rails fainted.
“Help!” a feminine voice cried out.
He spun around. All he could see was the beribboned green hat upon her head being jostled from side to side as men pushed past her with cruel elbows.
Her tiny gloved hand shot up, fanning a dainty handkerchief of surrender. “Guards. Someone. Please. I—I can’t breathe!”
The music thundered, whipping itself into a crescendo.
Cullen used his height, his breadth, and his outrage to battle his way toward her. An elbow slammed into his back, knocking the breath from him yet propelling him closer to her.
Ignoring the stinging blow, he strained ahead, a salmon swimming upstream.
Her arm and hat wrenched sideways, her cry of pain searing his ears.
“For the sake of Peter,” he shouted. “Someone help her!”
But his words were lost in the jumble.
Her arm wilted, the handkerchief slowly disappearing from sight.
“No! Don’t faint!” He willed her to hear him. “They’ll trample you!”
He made a herculean rush forward, and then he was there. She’d stayed on her feet, but her face was white and drawn with terror.
He opened his arms as wide as he could. “Quickly. Come here.”
She pitched herself against him, then lifted her chin, resting it against his chest. “My ankle. I’ve twisted it.”
Nodding, he clamped her safely against him, then looked around, easily able to see over the quaking mass. A woman to his right invaded the benches reserved for reporters. Crawling onto a bench and then a table, she grasped the rails of the grandstand and hiked a leg to mount it.
One of the correspondents pulled her back down by her skirt, causing her to fall and break his table. Cullen felt his outrage bubble again, but he already had his hands full.
Some excited men in the crowd tried to calm those around them by battering them with umbrellas. Other men laughed at being thrown about and managed to get in a few gasping cheers, having no idea it wasn’t a speech they hailed but the chaplain’s prayer.
It was the women, however, who suffered the brunt of it. They screamed, they struggled, they disappeared from view. He’d never realized the destruction a crowd could cause. He kept glancing at the platform, expecting the chaplain to put a stop to the mayhem below. Instead, he simply stepped back and welcomed the next speaker.
The woman in his arms began to buckle, drawing his attention. Not only had her face lost color, but her lips had become pale. With each passing minute, the pressure around them grew worse. He had to move her befor
e she passed out completely.
Crouching over, he touched his lips to her ear. “I need you to hold on to my neck. I’m going to carry you to the press section where there’s more room.”
The scent of rosewater wafting from her neck contrasted sharply with the smell of panic coating the air.
She shook her head. “You can’t.”
He frowned. Did she doubt his strength? Though her coat covered the specifics, he could feel a very slender form beneath it. “You’re tiny as a mite.”
Bunching her hands around fistfuls of his jacket, she slowly pulled herself up, straightening her one good leg. Up, up, up she rose until the tip of her head reached the bottom of his chin.
He lifted his brows. She might be thin, but she was quite tall for a woman. Still, he leaned down and easily swept her into his arms, then began to press forward. With each step toward their goal, she gave a tiny yelp of pain and drew up her knees, then squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her teeth about her lips.
This wasn’t going to work. Her ankle was too exposed. Even standing still, it was abused by the push and pull around them.
“I’m going to set you down for a minute,” he said, lowering her legs.
She nodded.
He supposed he could sling her over his shoulder, but that would be not only indecorous, it would still leave her ankle unprotected.
Scanning the area, he caught the eyes of two massive fellows with hair so blond they looked as if they had no brows or lashes.
Cullen jerked his head in a come-here motion. “This lady is hurt,” he shouted. “I need your help.”
The larger of the two blond giants frowned. “Snakker du norsk?”
Cullen blinked, unsure if his hearing was acting up or if the man had spoken in a Scandinavian tongue. “Help. This lady needs help.”
The Vikings forged their way to him.
Releasing one of his arms from around the woman, Cullen pointed to her, then pantomimed hoisting her up into the air.
The men grinned, clearly game for the challenge.
The woman’s eyes widened, the first bit of color flooding back into her cheeks. “Wait—”
Cullen shook his head. “Just keep yourself as stiff as you can and put your arms across your chest.”
“No, you can’t just—”
Grasping her shoulders, he lifted her up. One Viking took her waist, the other her feet. She gave a quick cry and buckled her knees.
“Careful,” Cullen shouted, pointing toward her ankles with his head. “She’s hurt.”
Nodding, the bigger blond swooped up her dragging hems and clamped his large hands around her calves. The woman squealed in shocked surprise.
The three of them raised her high above their heads and began to make their way toward the press benches. Cullen gave a savage yell, forging a path where before there had been none.
He glanced again at the stage, noting a pretty young woman with graceful gestures reciting a poem about Columbus seeking guidance in the sea and sky. If the distressed cries of the wounded distracted her, she gave no sign of it.
President Cleveland sat with quiet dignity, hands threaded across his belly, but his eyes were alight as they tracked the progress of Cullen and his Viking comrades. Cullen gave a helpless shrug and winked.
A hint of smile lines touched the president’s cheeks, and he gave an almost infinitesimal nod of his head.
Finally, they made it to the press section. The men carefully lowered their cargo into Cullen’s arms. She frantically clasped her hands about his neck for support while he thanked the two men.
The Vikings moved back through the press of bodies, heading toward another woman in peril.
Director-General Davis had replaced the young poet, but the few who could hear his words weren’t listening. All attention was on the cavalrymen who, Cullen was relieved to note, rode through the crowd, making way for the ambulances that followed. A detachment of Fifteenth Infantry cleared a space where the wounded could be taken.
The relentless pressure that had first caused the trouble eased, and the panic slowly subsided.
“You can put me down now, sir. There’s room enough here for me to stand.”
Cullen glanced down, having almost forgotten he held her. “What about your ankle?”
“I can stand on one foot.”
“It’s no hardship to hold you.”
“You’re very kind, but it’s really not necessary.”
An outburst erupted from the throng, a wave of enthusiasm sweeping over them. Grover Cleveland had risen and approached a flag-draped table. The only thing on its surface was a velvet case made in three decks. Secured to its top deck was a golden telegraph key. As soon as he touched the key, every engine and piece of machinery in the entire fair would be set in motion.
The woman tugged at Cullen’s neck. Without taking his eyes from the president, he released her legs, bending carefully until her feet touched the ground.
“You okay?” He had to place his mouth against her ear to be heard above the roar.
Nodding, she released his neck and lifted one foot like a dainty flamingo.
He pulled her back against him. “Lean on me. If you get too tired, just say so and I’ll pick you up again.”
Removing his silk hat, Cleveland smoothed a hand over his head and waited for the applause to subside. Finally, he raised an arm. The unconscious murmurs of the multitude hushed. Every man, woman, and child stood still to hear the words of the president of the United States.
“I am here to join my fellow citizens in the congratulations which befit this occasion.” Standing erect and calm, he gazed out on the scene, his voice loud and strong, his words succinct.
Whistles and whoops reverberated throughout the Court of Honor. Hundreds of squawking seagulls flew over, then dipped themselves in the lagoon.
“Let us hold fast to the meaning that underlies the ceremony, and let us not lose the impressiveness of this moment.”
With the completion of every sentence, the crowd punctuated it with thunderous applause. Cullen’s heart swelled with patriotism and pride.
“As by a touch the machinery that gives life to this vast exposition is now set in motion, so at the same instant let our hopes and aspirations awaken forces which in all time to come shall influence the welfare, the dignity, and the freedom of mankind.”
Securing the woman with one arm, Cullen whistled and whipped off his hat, swinging it in the air, just like acres and acres of like-minded citizens. A hundred thousand handkerchiefs appeared, fluttering in the breeze like a sudden fall of snowflakes.
With an exaggerated flourish, Cleveland pushed down the golden telegraph key and set off a chain reaction.
Old Glory, whose silken folds had been bound, whipped open to catch the razor-sharp breeze. A massive cheesecloth veil fell from a ninety-foot gilded figure of the Republic posing in the waters of the Basin. A halo of electric lamps illuminated her crown. Her uplifted arms held a staff of Liberty and an eagle with wings spreading over the court.
STATUE OF THE REPUBLIC
On the roofs and towers of the surrounding palaces, seven hundred flags and streamers unfurled in an explosion of color. Whistles of steam launches in the interlocking lakelets and canals drowned out the boom of a cannon aboard a man-of-war in the lake beyond the peristyle.
A flock of snow-white doves was set free to circle over the waters, and the national salute of twenty-one guns paid tribute to the occasion. The lilt of chimes from Germany’s building rode along the coattails of the breeze. Electric fountains shot streams of multicolored water high into the air, rising and falling, spinning and whirring, all in a lyrical dance of pink, yellow, sea green, and violet dewdrops.
Playing bass to this hallelujah chorus was the roar and hum of innumerable engines beginning to ripple throughout the grounds.
The crowd quieted, momentarily awed into stillness, before letting out a cheer that lasted minutes. Then, like a lightning bolt fracturing the sky, they
broke apart and dashed in a thousand directions, hurrying to take in the wonders set before them.
The 1893 World’s Colombian Exposition had officially begun.
CHAPTER
4
Packed as they were at the hub of the crowd, it was going to be a while before Della and the man supporting her could move from their spot. And with each passing moment, her embarrassment grew. Propriety had had no voice when she was hemmed in on all sides and fear overtook her. Though she’d blamed her distress on her ankle, it was the other that had led to her panic.
But now that she was beside the press benches, she had much more room to breathe. Since she was on one foot, her rescuer circled round to face her, still holding her elbow.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Much better. Thank you.”
Rarely did she have to look up to meet a man’s gaze. But this gentleman was a good head taller than most, and frightfully broad about the shoulders.
“I don’t believe we’ve properly met.” His brown eyes took a quick survey of her. “I’m Cullen McNamara, of Charlotte, North Carolina. How do you do?”
She slid her eyes closed, then girded herself with bravado. He was simply a guest at the fair. It’s not as if she would ever see him again. All she had to do was pretend she hadn’t hurled herself into his arms and held on for dear life. Then, in a few moments’ time, she’d be free of him.
“How do you do. I’m Adelaide Wentworth of Philadelphia.”
Whipping off his hat, he released her arm and made a bow. No bald spot hiding under that hat. A head full of thick black hair.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“And I, you. Thank you very much for coming to my rescue. I’m certain my ribs would have cracked in two if I’d stayed there another minute.”
“It was my pleasure.”
