The Pan-American Exposition not only provided New World republics with exhibition space; the local and national press printed geographies and histories of visiting countries and transcripts of speeches by Latin American businessmen, politicians, and leading educators. Director-General Buchanan, fluent in Spanish, translated a number of speeches himself. Depending upon what newspaper they read, readers might learn for the first time about Latin American history and cultures.19
But it was the dedication ceremonies on special “days” that attracted the most attention. And Cuba Day offered visiting islanders a chance to celebrate their nation’s past and future and to give their hosts a lecture about current events. It was the first time Cuban officials had spoken formally in the United States since the War of 1898.
Late in the morning, in the cool spaces of the Temple of Music, the Buffalo audience mingled with what one reporter noted as “dark-skinned, dark-eyed foreigners.” Honorable Daniel Lockwood, representing the Exposition, opened the ceremony, praising Cubans and announcing that “every American felt proud of the fact that the Stars and Stripes have stretched their protecting folds over the island’s people.” Cuban speakers offered some polite deference in return, noting the “greatness and grandeur” of the United States and declaring that there was “not a man in Cuba who does not feel a profound sense of gratitude for the United States.”
At some point, though, the light-skinned people must have straightened in their seats. Edelberto Farrés, president of the Cuban Commission to the Exposition, wanted to correct some misperceptions. The recent war against Spain? The war that, to many Americans, seemed a quick rout? In Cuban minds, he said, it was a long war, fought for many years on Cuban soil, by Cubans themselves. The fact that Cubans had managed to put up a building and put on a big display at Buffalo revealed their resilience. “It is surprising,” Farrés said, that, “after a war of devastation which cost the lives of nearly 50 per cent of our population, we were able to make the showing we have at your grand exposition.”
Farrés also addressed political matters. He noted that the ink was barely dry on the Platt Amendment. This legislation, signed with many misgivings by the Cuban government, had given the United States the right to interfere in Cuban affairs. Cubans, the United States Congress had argued, needed American guidance and protection. Farrés demurred. We have, he declared, “since this exposition opened proved that we have the courage and the progress and the ability to govern ourselves.”
A Cuban school commissioner named F. R. Machado had more to say. People were under the impression, he said, that Cubans were never happy, and that they rejected the involvement of the United States. The matter, he said, was not hard to explain: “Chains, gentlemen, even golden, are always chains, and it is nothing particular that those who have been deceived and tyrannized for centuries should be suspicious. . . .” Then he used another analogy. “We are, I think, very much like champagne.” Champagne, if “too closely confined . . . will always strive to break the bottle. If it does break it by much pressure, then those around it may be hurt.”
The Cubans were not done. Dr. Louis A. Baralt, a Cuban orator and linguist, said he was glad that the United States and Cuba were getting acquainted. “But,” he added, “all must remember that this country [the United States] is not America.” He also suggested that there was an implicit bargain at work in the Exposition. “We shall sit at the same banquet table and shall be one people, one great brotherhood in common interest . . . [but] we have taken [you at your] word in saying that Cuba ought to be, and shall be, free.” At least one section of the audience cheered heartily. One observer said that this event perhaps had “more significance than any other which has been held at the exposition.”20
Just over nine days later, President William McKinley, to whom many of these remarks were addressed, would stand in the very same cool and airy rotunda and stretch out his hand to greet well-wishers.
4.
The Blood-Colored Temple
I
GOODBYE TO OHIO
The day before they left home for the Exposition, President and Mrs. McKinley kept their calendar open to pack and organize, and took no callers. The packing would not be arduous—it was a relatively short trip of ten days. First the Exposition, then a visit with good friends in Ohio, then a Grand Army of the Republic veterans’ encampment in Cleveland. William McKinley liked these veterans’ reunions—a chance to reconnect with comrades from those hard days long ago.
They made one exception in their empty schedule. They drove to the Stark County Fair for Children’s Day, toured the grounds in a carriage, and stopped to greet groups of children. Many of the younger folks, said one reporter, “had never before seen a real live president.” The McKinleys liked children; they had never seen their own grow up. They had lost two daughters, three-year-old Katie from typhoid in 1875 and Ida, named after her mother, just four months old, in 1873. Every Sunday when they were in Canton, they took fresh flowers to Westlawn Cemetery to place on their graves.
The McKinleys left Canton for the Pan-American Exposition at ten in the morning on Wednesday, September fourth. They took with them members of the Secret Service, a nurse, a maid, three nieces, two stenographers, and George Cortelyou. In addition, the White House physician, Dr. Presley Rixey, traveled with the party. Dr. Rixey, a former naval surgeon, had been with the McKinleys since 1898, and he now hovered over Ida. Although she had regained her health during the quiet days in Canton, he wanted to be at the ready should she suffer one of her frequent “turns.”
The McKinleys’ train traveled through Cleveland, where people lined the tracks to see the president. He obliged, and, standing on the platform at the rear of the train, he waved good-bye to Ohio. The train passed Erie, Pennsylvania, at 3:45 p.m., and, an hour later, at Dunkirk, New York, a greeting party from the Exposition climbed aboard.1
People who believed in omens pointed to the president’s arrival in the city of Buffalo as a portent—as though the strange thing that occurred should have been enough to turn the train around and send it back to safety. The presidential entourage, in three railroad cars, arrived at Buffalo’s Central Station just before 6 p.m. The city had planned a powerful greeting for the dignitaries: simultaneous blasts from ship horns, factory whistles, church bells, and cannons, along with hurrahs from well-wishers on the streets.
The train arrived, belching smoke and steam, and the noisemakers went to work. How much of the clamor the arriving guests could hear is unknown, but soon after pulling away toward the Exposition, they felt a sudden blast, this one close and loud. An explosion shook the train, shattering the Pullman windows to “smithereens” and blasting out windows on nearby buildings.
We can only imagine the anxiety of Presley Rixey, thinking of how little it took to put Ida McKinley over the edge, or the fears of George Cortelyou, readily picturing the president’s enemies. Another witness shared Cortelyou’s concern, for, seconds after the blast, he shouted something about anarchists. Others, too, panicked. One had seen a “swarthy” man in the vicinity.
There were no anarchists, though, this time. And there were no dark-skinned suspects. The culprits, soldiers of the Seventy-third Coast Artillery, had misfired a twenty-one-gun salute. The cadets had been ordered to fire vintage guns taken from a War Department exhibit in the Exposition, even though most of them had never seen, much less operated, muzzle-loading guns. Nor had they been instructed in the positioning of the guns or the proper timing. Not surprisingly, the timing was off, and they had fired close to the presidential train.
With nothing to repair beyond military pride, the McKinley train steamed the rest of the way to the Exposition. The presidential party, now dressed in evening black, transferred to a carriage and made its first tour of the fairgrounds. They then rode down Delaware Avenue, passed the big houses draped in patriotic bunting, and settled in at John Milburn’s house for the night.2
Between the first day of September and the fourth, Fred Nieman entered
and exited Nowak’s boardinghouse, not making any fuss about where he went, what he saw, or whom he met.
He went down Broadway to a barbershop and asked about a bottle of glycerin. Maybe he wanted to tame his hair, or he went in for a shave and a haircut. It would be just like Nieman to be fussing with his looks. Maybe, though, it was something else altogether. Take glycerin, add a little nitric acid, and the result wasn’t a beauty product. If Nieman had bomb-making in mind, he hadn’t studied his ingredients. The bottle that he stole from the barbershop contained nothing but cod liver oil.
He was more careful about another item. In Walbridge’s Main Street store, he found the perfect firearm: a .32-caliber Iver Johnson revolver. Its barrel was short, which was handy. But Nieman didn’t worry too much about the specifications. He was already convinced it was the gun to do the job. Gaetano Bresci had used this very model in Italy.3
Nieman carried resentment with him like a malignancy—it ate away at him, and he could not escape it. Being at the Pan-American fair, walking to and from jobs, probably fueled his feelings of injustice. In fact, for a man who believed that states were tyrannical and that all rulers, including American presidents, were oppressive, there was probably no place in the world more likely to stir his fury.
Imagine Nieman walking into the Exposition grounds over the Triumphal Bridge. This strutting edifice, hung between four massive pylons, served as a colossal tribute to state power. More than a hundred feet off the ground, men on rearing horses rose over trophies of war and claimed victory for American republics. Copper shields, coats of arms, and banners, all suspended on cables, honored the nations of the Exposition and their military might.
Imagine Nieman wandering across the Esplanade into the United States Government Building, its blue dome crowned by the symbol of victory. Inside, set atop a gigantic model of the globe, Uncle Sam’s boats sailed over the world. More than three hundred little lead ships, including gunboats, submarines, torpedo boats, and battleships, occupied almost every ocean. Attendants moved the miniature fleet every day, so visitors could stay current with the nation’s imperial reach.
Another pavilion was dedicated to that reach. A three-thousand-square-foot exhibit was devoted to displays of curios and implements of the Philippine islands. It included farming tools, fishing nets, clothing, and household items. And it featured weapons that United States soldiers had taken from Filipino fighters after they were killed or captured.
Did Nieman see the Midway? He didn’t seem the type. If he had, he might have struck up conversations about politics and power with people who performed in the living exhibits. While there is not a shred of evidence that he met Pablo Arcusa, he likely would have agreed with his desire to rid his native country of Americans.
The Triumphal Bridge on Flag Day. The 100-foot-long American flag, hoisted between the pylons, was said to be the largest in the world.
Nieman professed to be as concerned about poor people as he was about the heavy hand of government. Where some at the turn of the century took pride in American successes and victories, he saw only struggle. And, in his distress, he found somebody to blame. “McKinley was going around the country shouting prosperity,” he said, “when there was no prosperity for the poor man.” 4
What did the fair say to Nieman about money in America? The Exposition showed off imperial power like a jeweled ball gown, but it did not parade or flaunt individual wealth. That would have been un-American. In fact, the Republican press claimed that Rainbow City, like other fairs of the time, was friendly to working people. It was “the people’s fair.” Newspapers reported that in the winter of 1899, when the city began asking Buffalonians to invest in the fair, more than eleven thousand residents had pledged $1.5 million. Subscribers to the Exposition, who had bought shares for as little as ten dollars each, represented a wide swath of the city.
The Pan-American Exposition also offered jobs to thousands of local people. There were problems, of course. Companies found ways around hiring local men, and the site saw its share of walkouts. Plasterers and ironworkers and carpenters all went on strike for better pay. The good news for workingmen, though, was that labor was well organized in Buffalo.
On Labor Day, September second, in fact, a huge parade of fifteen thousand workers testified to the importance of Buffalo labor unions. Papers pronounced the scene a reflection of the new era of prosperity, where everybody “marched to the music of good times.” Many of the marchers also cheered on Samuel Gompers, head of the American Federation of Labor, when he delivered a speech in the Temple of Music. Gompers thanked the Exposition leaders for their reception and praised the men who built and operated the fair. He reminded his listeners that unions furthered justice and prevented strikes. Exposition officials, such as President Milburn and Director-General Buchanan, thanked him, politely.5
Local working people not only put up the fair and kept it running; they also visited the display buildings, walked through the Midway, whooped on rides, and took pride in the power of the nation along with thousands of other guests. But doing so cost money and took work time. Did the scrubwomen, cooks, carpenters, and custodians have the means to take in many of the sights? They saw the grounds, to be sure, but it was at the edges of the day when they swept the asphalt clean, scoured floors, repaired exhibits, and strained the fountains of litter. How much were they able to tour and revel in Rainbow City?6
The year before the fair opened, a wealthy Buffalonian suggested that laborers save money so that when the fair rolled around, they would have enough cash on hand to attend. Businesses, he said, should dock paychecks twenty-five cents each week. Saving money would bring about a double benefit: fun at the fair and disciplined habits.
That idea never caught on, and it is unclear how hard fair directors worked to open the fair to the very poor. They did cut ticket prices on Sunday afternoons, from fifty to twenty-five cents. But visitors couldn’t see the Midway then, because its content had been deemed inappropriate for the Lord’s Day. And even on Sunday it was hard to see the fair the “right” way. The grand entrance to the Exposition, from the south, was designed for horses and carriages, not trolley riders. Good seats for concerts and fireworks also cost extra, and even restrooms charged for towels and soap. Women without means also likely never saw the interior of the Women’s Building. It was not meant for public resting or lounging.
Rainbow City seemed to open its gates widest, then, to men and women who had money to spend and days off to enjoy it. On Labor Day, when workers had a rare weekday vacation, many families saw the fair for the very first time. These women and children hadn’t been disinterested before, certainly. Some of their fathers and husbands had even helped build the Exposition, and they toured the grounds listening with pride about how exhibits had been put together. What they had been missing for the previous four months was not the motive to see the beauty and wonders of Rainbow City, but the means.7
II
POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE
On the morning of President’s Day, Thursday, September 5, gondoliers staged a last-minute walkout, leaving the fair’s picturesque waterways empty. Pan-American enthusiasts ignored the strike, however, and threw themselves into the red, white, and blue blur of presidential pomp. They enjoyed a day free from cannon accidents, too. The Seventy-third Coast Artillery, scheduled to fire off big guns again, had been positioned as far away from the Lincoln Parkway gate as possible, “so that the salute will not disturb the presidential party.”
As for President McKinley’s trusting himself to the public? Guards seemed to be everywhere: Secret Service men stayed close by, soldiers surveyed the scene from horseback, and police detectives and Exposition police circulated through the crowds. Other dignitaries—senators, foreign officials, and ambassadors—mingled together in what one visitor called “a grand array of might and power.”
Arriving at 10:30 a.m. on President’s Day, Mabel Barnes and Abby Hale struggled through the masses to see the chief executive. They were pleased t
o have “first class views” of McKinley as he reviewed the troops at the stadium. They skipped his speech, instead strolling through a forested island in one of the Mirror Lakes and making a cursory visit to the Ohio State Exhibit. They then made a beeline for the part of the Exposition they loved the most: the Midway. It was Mabel’s twenty-second visit to the fair.8
Late in the morning, McKinley gave an address to fifty thousand people from a covered Esplanade bandstand. The motion-picture crews filming the event did not have the technology to capture the vibrant colors: the purple swags and drapes on the stage, the scarlet-coated musicians, and the blue robes of Chinese diplomats. They got a good look at the crowd, though, with its straw hats and parasols stirring like whitecaps on a human sea. And they filmed the president, taking in his big bowtie and his wide white shirt and capturing him bobbing with emphasis.
Stereographic view of crowds on President’s Day. The Temple of Music is in the background.
“Expositions are the timekeepers of progress,” McKinley began. “They record the world’s advancement.” They stimulated enterprise, he said, and produced friendly rivalries and, in this case, demonstrated the development of the Western Hemisphere. Soon enough, the president steered into his favorite topic: trade. With the world smaller than ever, thanks to fast trains and ships, there was less likelihood of distrust and more room for trade. United States workers, producing more than ever in this climate of “unexampled prosperity” just needed more markets. To help them, the country needed more ships, an Isthmian canal to the Pacific, and a cable to new outlets in Hawaii and the Philippines. McKinley saluted the father of inter-American commerce, former Secretary of State James G. Blaine.
The Electrifying Fall of Rainbow City Page 7
