by Terry, Mark
“Bother me? I don’t see why it should.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.” Randolph smiled half-heartedly, and then looked back out the window.
“You should have no cause to be ashamed of a query, Mr. Randolph. I’m a woman of intellectual curiosity. What caused your question?”
Randolph, a little taken aback, looked at Edison.
The inventor gave him a sidelong glance as he poured a second glass of ice water, shook off his vest and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.
Randolph began hesitantly, “Well, Miss Tarbell—”
“Ida,” she interrupted.
“Excuse me, yes, Ida. Well, you are a woman—a reporter. One would assume you are a feminist, yes? I merely wondered if you found some discrimination in the fact that the porters are all black.”
“Well, Mr. Randolph, allow me to clean up a misconception or two, but first let me ask if either of you have taken cross-country rail trips before?”
Edison and Randolph both nodded.
“Well, then, certainly you might be able to tell me if every porter on every train you’ve ridden is black?”
Edison and Randolph glanced at each other, then nodded again.
“Well, that would make sense then. I am aware that Mr. Pullman is this country’s largest employer of blacks. I am aware of his generosity towards black churches, black newspapers and rights organizations. Furthermore, their pay is sufficient that many of these experienced porters live a middle class lifestyle.”
Edison guffawed. “Hardly the words of a muckraker, Miss Tarbell.”
“Well, it is true that none of these men will ever rise to the job of conductor. That job is still unjustly reserved for whites. Nevertheless, it is hard to logically impugn actions that create a vast majority of breadwinners for black families. It is keeping those family units together and that is the most important action of all. Where activists are right today is that this country is moving from a rural and agricultural society to an urban industrialized society. Those developments they are demanding are simply an acknowledgement of that change.”
Edison clinked the ice around in his glass. “I suppose the same goes for women?”
“The women’s movement was all abolitionists, Mr. Edison, but not all abolitionists believe in suffrage. I myself do not believe in the goals of the suffrage movement per se.”
Edison dropped his glass and Randolph appeared to choke softly.
“Excuse me,” Randolph stammered, “did you say you —”
“I am not an uneasy woman, gentlemen. The modern woman is freer today than at any time in history, save for ancient Egypt. And now we have women running about town, running about the country and about the world, decrying their place in it.”
Ida set down her glass and stepped into her compartment, leaving the door slightly ajar so her voice could still be heard. “Today’s woman is listening to both nature and society in what course her life should take. This is a mistake.”
Ida poked her head out. “We fought the American Revolution as much for a woman’s freedom of speech as a man’s, and instead you have women trying to conform not just to the home, but to this new feminism as well.” Her head disappeared.
Randolph and Edison glanced at each other.
“I say a woman is independent of either.”
Randolph got up and moved into his compartment. Edison remained sitting, sipping his ice water.
When Ida came out of her compartment again, she wore a yellow evening gown with frill edging and a shallow collar, the sleeves set in with gussets.
“If a woman copies a man, can she impress womanhood? To bear a child, to feel the dependence of man and child, to lay the foundation of a family, these are worthwhile for women. All their instincts and experiences convince them that the family is the supreme and eternal value of women in the world.”
“That is quite a statement coming from a female journalist,” Edison said wryly.
“A feminist should not seek to denounce a man. Nor should she seek to emulate him.” Ida pointed a finger at Edison as Randolph reappeared sans collared shirt and shoes, brushing his teeth.
“Blaming men for their own position in life always gives women an outside, attackable cause for her limitations and defeats. Feminists make men scapegoats, and now, if a woman wants to have a family and raise children, these suffragettes say somehow she isn’t doing her part for womanhood. Well, these suffragettes have much to learn about womanhood.”
Randolph stopped brushing his teeth.
Ida smiled, “Women are allowing themselves to be burdened with the same excuses that the feminists say they are trying to remove. First they could blame men for their not getting out into the world, and then they can blame women for their not having families. Because they are taught to attack life as a man does, to enter a trade or a profession, to get into politics, they assume this will cure the inferiority of position and power a woman is willing to admit she seeks. But that comes from the very thing she is being taught to give up.”
“So, do you miss not having a family?” Randolph asked.
Ida looked at the bookkeeper for a moment. A brief look of—loss perhaps—crossed her face, but then she shook her head.
“I have never had an impulse to marry, but I believe it is the strongest moral force—a woman in the home. The American Revolution and the Civil War gave us that. And it is the industrial age that is dissipating it. Women are being convinced the means to satisfy their lives is to be more like men.”
Edison chuckled softly. “Well, it is refreshing to see a woman who appreciates her position in the family. Men have invented the world, and women make it worth living in.”
Ida poured herself another glass of ice water and turned for her chamber. “I think women make better inventors, Mr. Edison.”
Edison looked astonished. “What?”
“One-sixth of all patents have been for inventions relating to clothing, Mr. Edison.” Ida stood at the chamber door. “Women are responsible for inventions to simplify every type of household and farm labor chore from dishwashing to milking to, well, to beekeeping! The female inventor improves the lives of women the world over and, in so doing—”
Edison’s jaw dropped and Randolph chuckled.
“In so doing, Mr. Edison, improves the lives of their children and their husbands. Every day. Good night, Mr. Edison. Good night, Mr. Randolph.” And with that, Ida Tarbell departed to her room for the evening.
“What a creature!” Edison said, letting out his breath.
“Indeed, sir,” the bookkeeper nodded.
Edison studied Randolph for a moment, seemingly noticing something for the first time. “Randolph, I seem to recall you trying to tell me something earlier. Now that the lady has retired for the evening what did you want to talk about?”
Randolph cleared his throat and took a drink of ice water. “Mr. J.P. Morgan telegraphed before I left to meet you at the train station. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of bad news.”
“What bad news?” Edison’s eyes narrowed.
Randolph took a deep breath. “General Electric lost the bid to Westinghouse for the Exposition. They’re going to go with Tesla.”
“What?” Edison leapt to his feet and threw his glass across the carriage. “That’s impossible! What were they thinking? What did they tell you? Is their decision final?”
Randolph’s eyes wandered for a moment before looking back at the floor. “Yes, sir, they had already informed Westinghouse and Mr. Tesla before telegraphing us. Westinghouse wired the winning bid this morning.”
“Then what the hell am I doing on this train? Why did you let us get on if we are going to go to Chicago to be humiliated? For Lord’s sake, Randolph!” Edison stopped and held his breath. “How much did Westinghouse bid? We can make a counteroffer!”
“Sir—”
“We’ll have them wait at the next stop. Get some paper, Randolph. We’re going to send a telegram to Chicago. We’re going t
o win this yet!”
“Sir, that’s not going to happen.” Randolph didn’t look up.
Edison walked to Randolph and loomed over him. “What do you mean?”
“Tesla’s bid represented half ours, sir. We can’t possibly do it. The cost of the copper wiring alone would cause Mr. Morgan to pull out. We simply can’t match the cost of Mr. Tesla’s AC electricity.” Randolph came to his feet, shaking his hands imploringly. “Sir, I tried to tell you on the platform.” His eyes drifted towards Ida’s door as his voice dropped. “We didn’t have another opportunity for a confidential conversation.”
Edison stiffened in realization. He thought for a moment, and then his face no longer flushed. His eyes sparkled with thought.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” Randolph began again, but Edison waved him off.
“Time to think now, Randolph. Time to plan. Time to plot. I think it’s time to give the world some second thoughts about Mr. Tesla’s Alternating Current.”
Interlude 22
Tuesday, March 14, 1893, 11:25 a.m.
Chicago Columbian Exposition
The city of Chicago, a booming metropolis of nearly a million inhabitants, bustled with life on the eve of the Columbian Exposition. Its downtown resembled the three hundred acres of the New York Stock Exchange and its afternoon traffic between half-past five and half-past six made Broadway in New York look like a ghost town.
Along Clark Street were the city’s famous underground restaurants, fashioned in marble and plated metal. Cable cars, in lengths of two-to-four cars each, raced about the city moving passengers from one side of the boomtown to the other, quickly and efficiently. Its famous slaughterhouse district turned cattle into steaks and pigs into bacon at speeds which were world famous, but that was only because the district tried to keep pace with the rest of the city. In one three-hundred-acre area on the edge of Lake Michigan, five percent of all the world’s railways terminated, serving more than twenty million people who found Chicago a convenient destination.
The city of Chicago itself encompassed more than eighteen-and-a-half-square miles of farms, prairies and villages, with the precise expectation that one day the great city of concrete and metal would encompass all of it. The impressive foresight to unify all water, drainage, parks, and boulevards meant the growth would be managed and coherent. The notion behind this anticipated growth was simple. If one were to draw a line five-hundred miles in any direction, he would have almost nothing but arable land and forest—north across the Canadian wilderness, west across Ohio into Nebraska, southwest into Missouri, south into Kentucky and east across Lake Michigan, which was, itself, of immense economic value.
Of the people, it can be expressed, they were a greater mixture than anywhere else in America. They resided in homes that denoted prosperous living in sprawling suburbs that stretched for miles from the city center. In cities like New York where property values were higher, homes were crammed together.
For Chicagoans, that close proximity of neighbors would have certainly diminished their lifestyle. In a single stretch of homes on the Atlantic, one would find row upon row of identical brownstones. Along Prairie Avenue in Chicago, he could find a dozen different architectural styles, and in the evenings, the rich really did sit on their porches. Their beautified boulevards stretched from the southern suburbs all the way into the heart of the financial district, and on the weekends, the citizenry enjoyed the rich suburban life of Chicago’s parks.
On Michigan Avenue, a large stone tablet was set into the wall of the enormous soap and glycerin works of James S. Kirk & Co. This marked the site of the first important edifice built in Chicago. Along the arch of the slab were the words “Blockhouse of Fort Dearborn.” The rest of the inscription went on to tell the history of the first significant settlement in the area, the settlers’ confrontation with Native Americans, its abandonment and reclamation, and finally the elimination of the last of its traces in the Chicago Fire of 1871.
The Columbian Exposition would open in weeks, and frantic activity had taken hold in the city. The six-hundred-acre park featured over two hundred new buildings. On approach to the site, the second story of the Woman’s Building could be seen above the greenery. At the center of this amazing spectacle, which dwarfed all previous World’s Fairs and marked the beginning of the American era, sat White City.
So named for its white stucco buildings, it made for the grandest and most elegant presentation in World’s Fair history. In comparison to the surrounding Chicago tenements, White City literally glowed, especially at night with its new electric lights. Amongst this cavalcade of sights, a vast interlocking waterway of lagoons and canals stretched through the park. Four hundred gondolas brought over from Venice passed leisurely along these liquid thoroughfares.
Forty thousand skilled workmen hurried about, putting the finishing touches on the original Ferris wheel which included a specially designed car for the John Phillips Sousa Orchestra, the Midway Plaisance, the Court of Honor, eighteen thousand tons of steel, seventy-five million feet of lumber, and fourteen main buildings with sixty-three million square feet of floor space.
As Tesla made his way past the Woman’s Building and around the outskirts of the main lagoon, he had to contend with several thousand paying spectators. The excitement had so grown about the Exposition and its attractions that families were paying twenty-five cents apiece just to be able to walk in amongst the buildings under construction.
From a distance, he finally caught sight of the Electric Building. It opened to a grand entrance that stood a story taller than the rest of the building and was decorated by many towers. Above the main entrance, the sign marking his grand presentation read, “Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Co. Tesla Polyphase System.”
Tesla didn’t notice the smallish man in a gray suit come alongside and start to walk in step with him. Nikola didn’t even notice when the man flipped open a notebook and poised a pencil above the pad.
“Mr. Tesla, Julian Ralph, Harper's Chicago. Would you care to give a few words on the impact that your exhibits are going to have on Chicago and the world? Chicago is the young city that only a few short years ago suffered so terribly in the Great Fire. Have you any words for Chicago, sir?”
Tesla only shook his head and walked a bit faster, but Julian kept up.
“How about the nine acres of electrical exhibits, Mr. Tesla? There’s talk that none of that would have been possible without you and Mr. Westinghouse advancing the electrical system so cheaply and efficiently. Engineers at the Department of Electricity say they will send power over greater distances than anything conventional electrical power can do.”
At this, Tesla stopped. “Conventional electrical power?” he asked hoarsely.
“Well, Mr. Edison’s DC current does power many of the urban centers on the East Coast.”
Tesla looked at the reporter levelly. “Last time major storm hit New York, most deaths were for dangerous power lines which came loose. Fell on innocent citizens of city. Because voltage of Mr. Edison’s power must be sent over different power lines, making transmission costly and inefficient. Whereas, my AC power can be cheaply and safely redistributed by transformers to different parts of home or building for different applications. Is no such thing as conventional power, Mr. Ralph. Is only effective and ineffective power.” Tesla started walking again.
“Well, the Department of Electricity seems to agree with you, Mr. Tesla. They’ve set up turbines under some of the Niagara Falls one hundred miles away to create power for this event. They wouldn’t have done that unless you had shown them that this AC power of yours works.”
“Of course is working!” Tesla barked.
“Then you dispute Mr. Edison’s claims that your new electrical power is unstable and dangerous?”
Tesla waved his hand dismissively. “Let future tell truth, and evaluate each one according to his work and accomplishments. The present is theirs; the future, for which I have really worked, is mine. I must go.�
��
“Mr. Tesla, I’d really like to talk to you more about this. Get your side.”
Tesla paused. “I’m no good at—” he motioned back and forth between himself and the reporter.
“Mr.Tesla, no worries. I’ll just ask questions. You don’t have to say anything else.”
Tesla considered that. “Nothing else?” He cocked his head.
“Nada,” the reporter smiled.
“I’m staying at Castle. Six o’clock?”
Mr. Ralph extended a handshake in agreement. Tesla looked at it and gave a half-wave in acknowledgement.
Ralph shrugged after a moment. “Six it is then,” the magazine writer said with a nod.
Interlude 23
Tuesday, March 14, 1893, 12:17 p.m.
Grand Central Station, Chicago
The Exposition Flyer arrived in Chicago before a throng of onlookers. When Ida stepped off the car, a train official approached her. He wore a brown suit coat and dabbed at the sweaty crown of his bare head with a handkerchief which he quickly stuffed into a pocket before he stepped forward.
The foreman took a pocket watch on a chain out of the same pocket and opened it. “An average of nearly one mile per minute. That’s one hour and twenty-three minutes faster than the last record. Welcome to Chicago, ma’am.”
Ida turned and looked back at Thomas Edison as he stepped out on to the covered platform.
Edison drank the half-glass of ice water in one heavy swallow, handed it to George, and stepped gingerly off the sleeping car.
John Randolph came down slowly, a gray wide-awake hat on his head and a suitcase in each hand. He set the cases on the platform as his feet stepped onto the concrete and turned to meet Edison’s direct gaze. “I’ll send the messages out and meet you both at the Exposition.” Then, with a tip of his hat to Miss Tarbell, the bookkeeper disappeared into the growing crowd of admirers of the gleaming silver super-train.
Ida and Edison took in the sight around them. They were standing inside the largest train shed in the world, almost two hundred meters long. Built of steel and glass, many considered it one of America’s miracles of engineering. The Grand Central Station building stood six stories of brick, brownstone, and granite and housed several of the nation’s major train companies. The clock tower—once the tallest in America—stood an awe-inspiring thirteen stories high.