The Devil in the White City (30 page)

Over the next few days his mood changed. There was talk that other unions might join the carpenters’ strike and bring all work in Jackson Park to a halt. Suddenly the exposition seemed dangerously far from ready. Construction of the sheds for the stock exhibits at the south end of the grounds had yet to begin. Everywhere Burnham looked he saw rail tracks and temporary roads, empty boxcars and packing crates. Tumbleweeds of excelsior roved the grounds. He was disappointed with the unfinished appearance of the park, and he was peeved at his wife.

“Why do you not write me every day?” he asked on Thursday. “I look in vain for your letters.”

He kept a photograph of Margaret in his office. Every time he walked by it, he picked it up and stared at it with longing. So far that day, he told her, he had looked at it ten times. He had counted on a rest after May 1 but realized now that the intensity would persist until long afterward. “The public will regard the work as entirely done, and I wish it were, so far as I am concerned. I presume anyone running a race has moments of half despair, along toward the end; but they must never be yielded to.”

Margaret sent him a four-leafed clover.

There was disarray in the fairgrounds, but not next door on the fifteen acres of ground leased by Buffalo Bill for his show, which now bore the official title “Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders of the World.” He was able to open his show on April 3 and immediately filled his eighteen-thousand-seat arena. Visitors entered through a gate that featured Columbus on one side, under the banner “P
ILOT OF THE
O
CEAN, THE
F
IRST
P
IONEER
,” and Buffalo Bill on the other, identified as “P
ILOT OF THE
P
RAIRIE, THE LAST
P
IONEER
.”

His show and camp covered fifteen acres. Its hundreds of Indians, soldiers, and workers slept in tents. Annie Oakley always made hers very homey, with a garden outside of primrose, geranium, and hollyhock. Inside she placed her couch, cougar skins, an Axminister carpet, rocking chairs, and assorted other artifacts of domestic life. And of course a diverse collection of guns.

Buffalo Bill always began his show with his Cowboy Band playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Next came the “Grand Review,” during which soldiers from America, England, France, Germany, and Russia paraded on horseback around his arena. Annie Oakley came next, blasting away at an array of impossible targets. She hit them. Another of the show’s staples was an Indian attack on an old stagecoach, the Deadwood Mail Coach, with Buffalo Bill and his men coming to the rescue. (During the show’s earlier engagement in London, the Indians attacked the coach as it raced across the grounds of Windsor Castle carrying four kings and the prince of Wales. Buffalo Bill drove.) Late in the program Cody himself demonstrated some fancy marksmanship, dashing around the arena on horseback while firing his Winchester at glass balls hurled into the air by his assistants. The climax of the show was the “Attack on a Settler’s Cabin,” during which Indians who once had slaughtered soldiers and civilians alike staged a mock attack on a cabin full of white settlers, only to be vanquished yet again by Buffalo Bill and a company of cowboys firing blanks. As the season advanced, Cody replaced the attack with the even more dramatic “Battle of the Little Big Horn . . . showing with historical accuracy the scene of Custer’s Last Charge.”

The fair was hard on Colonel Cody’s marriage. The show always kept him away from his home in North Platte, Nebraska, but his absence wasn’t the main problem. Bill liked women, and women liked Bill. One day his wife, Louisa—“Lulu”—traveled to Chicago for a surprise conjugal visit. She found that Bill’s wife already had arrived. At the hotel’s front desk a clerk told her she would now be escorted up to “Mr. and Mrs. Cody’s suite.”

Fearful that a wider strike could hobble the fair, even destroy it, Burnham began negotiations with the carpenters and ironworkers and agreed at last to establish a minimum wage and to pay time and a half for extra hours and double time for Sundays and key holidays, including, significantly, Labor Day. The union men, in turn, signed a contract to work until the end of the fair. Burnham’s clear relief suggests that his earlier bravado might have been just for show. “You can imagine though tired I go to bed happy,” he wrote to his wife. One measure of his exhaustion was the fact that the contorted syntax he usually worked so hard to suppress had now resurfaced. “We sat from early in the afternoon to nine o’clock. Till the fair is over this trial will not recur I believe, so your picture before me is unusually lovely as it looks up from the desk.”

Burnham claimed the agreement was a victory for the exposition, but in fact the fair’s concessions were a breakthrough for organized labor, and the resulting contracts became models for other unions to emulate. The fair’s capitulation pumped steam into America’s—and Chicago’s—already-boiling labor movement.

Olmsted returned to Chicago accompanied by his usual troika of affliction and found the place galvanized, Burnham everywhere at once. On Thursday, April 13, Olmsted wrote to his son John, “Every body here in a keen rush, the greatest in imaginable outward confusion.” Winds raced over the park’s barren stretches and raised blizzards of dust. Train after train arrived bearing exhibits that should have been installed long before. The delayed installations meant that temporary tracks and roads had to remain in place. Two days later Olmsted wrote: “We shall have to bear the blame of everyone else’s tardiness, as their operations are now everywhere in our way. At best the most important part of all our work will have to be done at night after the opening of the Exposition. I cannot see any way through the confusion but there are thousands of men at work under various chiefs & I suppose by & by the great labor will begin to tell together.”

He assigned some of the blame for the incomplete landscape to himself, for failing to install a trustworthy overseer in Chicago after the death of Harry Codman. On April 15, 1893, he wrote to John, “I am afraid that we were wrong in leaving the business so much to Ulrich & Phil. Ulrich is not I hope intentionally dishonest but he is perverse to the point of deceiving & misleading us & cannot be depended on. His energy is largely exhausted on matters that he sh’d not be concerned with. . . . I cannot trust him from day to day.”

His frustration with Ulrich grew, his distrust deepened. Later, in another note to John, he said, “Ulrich is unwittingly faithless to us. The difficulty is that he is ambitious of honors out of his proper line; cares more to be more extraordinarily active, industrious, zealous & generally useful, than to achieve fine results in L.A. [Landscape Architecture].” Olmsted grew especially leery of Ulrich’s slavish attentiveness to Burnham. “He is all over the grounds, about all sorts of business, and Mr. Burnham & every head of Department is constantly calling for ‘Ulrich!’ In going over the works with Burnham I find him constantly repeating to his Secretary: ‘Tell Ulrich to’—do this & that. I remonstrate, but it does little good. I can never find him at the work except by special appointment and then he is impatient to get away.”

At heart what Olmsted feared was that Burnham had transferred his loyalty to Ulrich. “I suppose that our time is out—our engagement ended, and I fear that Burnham is disposed to let us go and depend on Ulrich—for Burnham is not competent to see the incompetency of Ulrich & the need of deliberate thought. I have to be cautious not to bore Burnham, who is, of course, enormously overloaded.”

Other obstacles quickly appeared. An important shipment of plants from California failed to arrive, worsening an already critical shortage of all plants. Even the fine weather that prevailed in the first couple of weeks of April caused delays. The lack of rain and the fact that the park’s waterworks were not yet completed meant Olmsted could not plant exposed portions of the grounds. The wind-blown dust—“frightful dust,” he said, “regular sandstorms of the desert”—continued and stung his eyes and propelled grit into his inflamed mouth. “I am trying to suggest why I seem to be accomplishing so little. . . .” he wrote. “I think the public for a time will be awfully disappointed with our work—dissatisfied & a strong hand will be required here for weeks to come to prevent Ulrich’s energies from being wrongly directed.”

By April 21 Olmsted was again confined to bed “with sore throat, an ulcerating tooth, and much pain preventing sleep.”

Despite all this his spirits began slowly to improve. When he looked past the immediate delays and Ulrich’s duplicity, he saw progress. The shore of the Wooded Island was just now beginning to burst forth in a dense profusion of new leaves and blossoms, and the Japanese temple, the Hoo-den, crafted in Japan and assembled by Japanese artisans, detracted little from the sylvan effect. The electric boats had arrived and were lovely, exactly what Olmsted had hoped for, and the waterfowl on the lagoons provided enchanting sparks of energy in counterpoint to the static white immensity of the Court of Honor. Olmsted recognized that Burnham’s forces could not possibly finish patching and painting by May 1 and that his own work would be far from complete, but he saw clear improvement. “A larger force is employed,” he wrote, “and every day’s work tells.”

Even this flicker of optimism was about to disappear, however, for a powerful weather front was moving across the prairie, toward Chicago.

During this period, the exact date unclear, a milk peddler named Joseph McCarthy stopped his cart near Chicago’s Humboldt Park. It was morning, about eleven o’clock. A man in the park had caught his attention. He realized he knew the man: Patrick Prendergast, a newspaper distributor employed by the
Inter Ocean.

The odd thing was, Prendergast was walking in circles. Odder still, he walked with his head tipped back and his hat pulled so low it covered his eyes.

As McCarthy watched, Prendergast walked face-first into a tree.

Rain began to fall. At first it did not trouble Burnham. It suppressed the dust that rose from the unplanted portions of the grounds—of which, he was disappointed to see, there were far too many—and by now all the roofs were finished, even the roof of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building.

“It rains,” Burnham wrote to Margaret, on Tuesday, April 18, “and for the first time I say, let it. My roofs are in such good order at last, as to leaks we care little.”

But the rain continued and grew heavier. At night it fell past the electric lights in sheets so thick they were nearly opaque. It turned the dust to mud, which caused horses to stagger and wagons to stall. And it found leaks. On Wednesday night a particularly heavy rain came pounding through Jackson Park, and soon a series of two-hundred-foot cataracts began tumbling from the glass ceiling of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building onto the exhibits below. Burnham and an army of workers and guards converged on the building and together spent the night fighting the leaks.

“Last night turned out the most terrible storm we have had in Jackson Park,” Burnham wrote Margaret on Thursday. “No damage was done to the buildings on grounds except that the roofs of the Manufactures Building leaked on the east side, and we stayed there until midnight covering up goods. One of the papers says that Genl Davis was on hand and attending to things & that he never left the building till all was safe. Of course Mr. D had nothing whatever to do with it.”

The rain seemed to bring into focus just how much work remained. That same Thursday Burnham wrote another letter to Margaret. “The weather is very bad here and has so continued since last Tuesday, but I keep right along although the most gigantic work lies before us. . . . The intensity of this last month is very great indeed. You can little imagine it. I am surprised at my own calmness under it all.” But the challenge, he said, had tested his lieutenants. “The strain on them shows who is made of good metal and who is not. I can tell you that very few come right up to the mark under these conditions, but there are some who can be depended on. The rest have to be pounded every hour of the day, and they are the ones who make me tired.”

As always, he longed for Margaret. She was out of the city but due back for the opening. “I will be on the look out for you, my dear girl,” he wrote. “You must expect to give yourself up when you come.”

For this buttoned-up age, for Burnham, it was a letter that could have steamed itself open.

Day after day the same thing: fogged windows, paper curled from ambient moisture, the demonic applause of rain on rooftops, and everywhere the stench of sweat and moist wool, especially in the workers’ mess at lunch hour. Rain filled electrical conduits and shorted circuits. At the Ferris Wheel the pumps meant to drain the tower excavations ran twenty-four hours but could not conquer the volume of water. Rain poured through the ceiling of the Woman’s Building and halted the installation of exhibits. In the Midway the Egyptians and Algerians and half-clothed Dahomans suffered. Only the Irish, in Mrs. Hart’s Irish Village, seemed to take it in stride.

For Olmsted the rain was particularly disheartening. It fell on ground already saturated, and it filled every dip in every path. Puddles became lakes. The wheels of heavily loaded wagons sank deep into the mud and left gaping lacerations, adding to the list of wounds to be filled, smoothed, and sodded.

Despite the rain the pace of work increased. Olmsted was awed by the sheer numbers of workers involved. On April 27, three days before the opening, he reported to his firm, “I wrote you that there were 2,000 men employed—
foolishly.
There have been 2,000 men employed
directly
by Mr. Burnham. This week there are more than twice that number,
exclusive
of contractors forces. Including contractors and concessionaires’ forces, there are now 10,000 men at work on the ground, and would be more if more of certain classes could be obtained. Our work is badly delayed because teams cannot be hired in sufficient numbers.” (His estimate was low: In these closing weeks the total number of workers in the park was almost twenty thousand.) He was still desperately short of plants, he complained. “All resources for these seem to have failed and the want of them will be serious in its result.”