Rivers in the Desert Page 10

  Giving final tribute to his loyal aqueduct workers, Mulholland paused to clear his throat. Magnanimously he praised the forgotten man whose idea the aqueduct had been. Calling Fred Eaton “the father of the big ditch,” he honored him simply and honestly, making no mention of the private differences that now existed between the two men. “To former mayor Fred Eaton, I desire to accord the honor of conceiving the plan of the Aqueduct and of fostering it when it most needed assistance,” he said in closing.

  Notably absent from the ceremonies—in the official aqueduct program, tribute was made to Eaton’s conception of the aqueduct and his photograph appeared next to Mulholland’s—Eaton had offered the excuse that heavy autumn rains had so badly diluted the aqueduct water as to make the first drops “untrue.” Since the aqueduct was largely carrying rainwater, it would be a farce to attend the celebration, he claimed. After his three visits with Mulholland proved fruitless, and he realized that, at least for now, his price for Long Valley would be refused, Eaton’s refusal to attend the ceremony was another attempt to antagonize his former friend. Exacerbating the ill feelings between the two men, and knowing full well that his remarks to the press would get back to Mulholland, Eaton’s boycott of the ceremony was a childish jab at diminishing Mulholland’s pleasure in the celebration.

  At a huge roar from the crowd, Kinney stepped forward and presented Mulholland with a handsome, engraved, silver loving cup. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mulholland said, continuing with his praise, and holding the cup up high for the cheering crowd to see,

  This is yours. It was your own fidelity and unfaltering courage that made the work possible, and I want to thank you. This period in my life is one of great exaltation. The aqueduct is completed and is good. No one knows better than I how much we needed the water. We have the fertile lands and the climate. Only water was needed to make this region a rich and productive empire, and now we have it. This rude platform is an altar, and on it we are consecrating this water supply and dedicating this aqueduct to you, your children and your children’s children—for all time.

  And at this he lifted his hand in signal, and the crowd, holding their collective breath, waited, their eyes now glued to the giant cast iron wheel that would lift the gates, allowing the water to enter the bone-dry canal.

  Stepping to the flagpole mounted on the platform, Mulholland pulled the lanyard and unfurled the stars and stripes. Los Angeles’s own coloratura diva Ellen Beach Yaw’s clear soprano voice rose above the noise of the crowd and the band blared “God Bless America,’’ fireworks thundered, drums rolled, dusty Panamas, dainty white handkerchiefs, and programs were thrown into the air and fell like snowflakes upon the grandstand. The greatest moment in Los Angeles history had arrived.

  Manning the wheel, General Adna Chaffee and Van Norman struggled to open the enormous spigot. On command of an officer, the military men began firing field guns in salute. The crowd packed itself in even tighter alongside the sluice gates—risking their lives on the narrow, three-foot-wide concrete aqueduct embankment with its sixty-foot sheer drop. Many clung to the long wire fence along the embankment to avoid falling. Captivated by the suspenseful moment, none took their eyes off the mammoth gates, and so failed to see the impervious William Mulholland, the greatest water engineer of his age, standing there, one hand held behind his back with fingers crossed in hopeful good luck. He then lifted his eyes heavenward in thanks as an awesome creaking noise was heard and the gates slowly rose and the water, sparkling like diamonds in the autumn sun, squeezed its way through the concrete funnels into the slide.

  At first the crowd saw only a trickle, which suddenly became a stream and then a raging torrent as it flowed in the culvert below them. From high in the snow pack of the Sierra Nevada 233 miles north all the way to the San Fernando Valley, eight thousand miner’s inches were pouring from the hatches and splashing down the chutes in a veil of spray above newly man-made falls. Forty-three thousand hearts were beating a little faster as the daringly conceived and boldly executed project—one of the great engineering feats of all time—was successfully completed. And almost in a flash of an eye, there was delivered to the people of Los Angeles an asset worth a hundred million dollars—four times the cost of the aqueduct. It brought assurance of metropolitan grandeur and future prosperity such as few cities of the world can hope to attain.

  The crowd went wild at the sight of the water. Mulholland turned to them and over the roar of the rushing water, shouted, “There it is—Take it!”

  And they took it. Excited children raced down the concrete incline at its lowest point, following the first foaming water through the gates. They were joined by happy thousands, equally excited, who waded in the cascading Owens River water, splashing and jumping in exuberance over their deliverance. Only water was needed to make Los Angeles a rich and productive empire and now, as Mulholland announced, here it was—and the people, as predicted, came to take it. In just seven years the population doubled to exceed half a million, and it doubled again in the next decade. Today that population has increased to three and a half million people.

  As the military fired a twenty-one-gun salute and the band struck up “Hail to the Chief,” Harvey Van Norman pushed his way through the throng and up the steps of the grandstand to Mulholland, who was watching the joyous scene in silence. Above the din, Van Norman whispered something in Mulholland’s ear that caused him to break out in a smile from ear to ear. Van Norman had told him that the doctors in Los Angeles had wired to say that Lillie was faring well and resting comfortably.

  In this moment, with the full realization that his battle had been fought and won, with the crowd cheering and exulting, emotion overcame him. High-ranking officials, many of them among his closest friends, clapped him on the back and congratulated him, but for a moment he could not answer, remembering the long years of struggle and work. When he finally did speak, it was only to say briefly and modestly, “We knew it could be done and here it is.”

  The reputation of Los Angeles as a colony of Hollywood, doomed to insignificance by its dependence on water, was changed forever. The city could now deliver what it promised, a Mediterranean paradise sprung from a lifeless desert.

  “This is a great event,” Mulholland declared, “fraught with the greatest importance to the future prosperity of this city. I am overwhelmed and honored. What greater honor can any man ask than to have the confidence of his neighbors?”

  Suddenly, Mulholland’s measured and sober expression gave way to a slight smile. Tears streamed down his face. Then the gruff, hearty immigrant laughed out loud, and he marched down to the water’s edge to join the crowd frolicking in the Owens River water.

  THE FAMILY THAT DAY was represented by two of Mulholland’s daughters. A week before the big event, Lucille, age seventeen, and Rose, twenty-two, accompanied by Bessie Van Norman, visited an exclusive department store on Wilshire Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles, and purchased new dresses. Lucille selected a white, shortlsleeved, high-waisted cotton frock, and Rose picked a more austere, jacketed daytime suit. Bessie Van Norman, recognizing the occasion as one of the peak moments in her husband’s life, splurged a little, and chose a stunning, Egyptian-cotton opera wrap with lace spats and ankle-length drawers, worn with a beige silk hat trimmed in liberty green, gloves, and matching chiffon scarf.

  As taught by their father, the Mulholland girls were frugal and conservative, but they knew they would be photographed, and like Bessie spent more than they had planned, wanting to look their very best.

  Lillie was too ill to attend the ceremony, and remained under her doctor’s care in her blind-drawn bedroom, while Lucille and Rose were driven to the opening in a department car, traveling separately from their father, who had left at daybreak in another chauffeured limousine with other dignitaries. Fifteen-year-old Ruth, the youngest daughter, and Mulholland’s pet, remained at home at her own insistence to tend to her mother.

  The day before, Lillie had suffered respiratory failure and h
ad been rushed to the Queen of Angels Hospital, where doctors successfully resuscitated her. Desperately wanting to be with her husband in his finest hour, Lillie insisted that she be sent home. She had planned to accompany Lucille and Rose up to the aqueduct, and they had helped her bathe and dress, but ultimately she proved too weak to make the arduous trip. Unaware of her intent, Mulholland had left strict orders at the house that word of any change in her condition be sent to him posthaste at the ceremony.

  Now sitting at the head of her mother’s bed, slowly brushing her long white hair, Ruth joined her mother picturing the events of the great day. Lillie read from the aqueduct program, knowing that at this moment the water was already on its way to Los Angeles.

  When the Mulholland daughters returned home that night, their arms were filled with souvenirs—pennants, brochures, gold-trimmed ribbons, tiny vials of Owens River water, and a Panama hat. They all sat on Lillie’s bed and watched Rose place the small items into their father’s scrapbook, one of the treasured possessions of the Mulholland family.

  On Thursday, November 6, the morning following the celebration, the Los Angeles newspapers were plastered with pictures of the grand opening and of the two Mulholland daughters. One photograph of Lucille, arm outstretched clasping a silver loving cup filled with Owens River aqueduct water, was printed nine inches tall in the Los Angeles Herald. In the Los Angeles Times, the two sisters were photographed hugging one another, smiling under their bonnets, teary-eyed and waving white handkerchiefs, as the first water crashed into the conduit.

  Also not in attendance was Mulholland’s oldest son Perry, age twenty. Working with a group from the U.S. Geological Survey that was conducting its first assessment of the White Mountains north of Panamints in Inyo County on the day of the grand opening, Perry wrote his family how pleased he was that the aqueduct was finally finished. “Nothing will please me more than to hear that the knockers have had the quietus placed on their yapping and howling for all time to come, as far as the Aqueduct is concerned. I’ll bet Pappa isn’t shedding any tears tonight after having such a heavy load lifted from his shoulders.”

  Young Mulholland was right. For now, the public yapping and howling for Mulholland’s head had disappeared in the flow of the aqueduct water. As forty-three thousand sunburned, tired but jubilant onlookers began their long trek back to Los Angeles, Mulholland in his limousine, followed by two hundred select guests, proceeded to the spacious ranch home of Fred Bouroff, one of the major boosters of the San Fernando Valley, where a reception was given in Mulholland’s honor.

  The elaborate reception, financed by $500 from Bouroff and $300 donated by the Board of Control, was only a small taste of the homage that would be paid to Mulholland in the coming days. Hardly had the guests assembled when they gathered around him and joined in a rousing chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Mulholland was presented by Bouroff with yet another set of handsome silver loving cups, each bearing an artistic engraving of a construction phase of the aqueduct.

  “Your deeds and example will last forever,” said Bouroff, handing the cups to Mulholland.

  This was followed by much applause from the assembled supporters and by the serving of much champagne. Although joyous, it had been a long, hot day beneath the desert sun, and Mulholland, who was known to leave a trail of “dead soldiers” when he was in a thirsty mode, drank heartily and often.

  The praise continued non-stop from the various dignitaries. In keeping with his character, Mulholland received the accolades with modesty.

  “The magnitude of this generous reception afforded me today is embarrassing,” he said in his formal, slightly askew habit of speaking. “I have done no more than my duty, and with the confidence and trust reposed in me by the public, no man with a soul in him could do less than respect it and make good.”

  At this, another round of applause ensued, and even more drinks followed. Mulholland continued, “I feel that the praise you are giving me is in large measure due to those who have so magnificently assisted me in this work. I cannot forget the unfaltering championship of former mayor Alexander and General Chaffee. He has served his country with credit in large affairs, he gave of his time and mind in assisting me in this great work.”

  Cries rang out for General Chaffee to speak, and he obliged. “There is nothing to equal this in magnitude this side of the city of New York. Notwithstanding the disclaimer of Mr. Mulholland I insist that to him is due the credit of this achievement. We could only do our duty by upholding his hands. It was his genius that conceived and his skill that executed this great work. Ages ago Moses smote the rock and pure water rushed forth. Seven years ago we smote the rock and $24,000,000 came forth and today the poured water flows forth which will enrich and make happy the half million persons here and the half million who are soon to come.”

  Thunderous applause from the boosters present shook the house, and Mulholland, always equal to the situation, stepped forward again on tipsy legs and made his final pronouncement.

  “Failure cannot come to anything that southern California undertakes with such citizens. We are undoubtedly a people doomed to success.” And in tribute to Mulholland’s great feat and his unusual toast, the crowd shouted in laughter. The city of Los Angeles celebrated the completion of the aqueduct with religious zeal. A series of official dinners, balls, and parades coincided with the events at the Cascades, and an expensive plaster model of the aqueduct was built at Exposition Park so that citizens could view in miniature the project they had so courageously funded. Souvenir vendors did big business dispensing American flags and thousands of small bottles of the first aqueduct water flow through the gates. A schedule of gala public events for the day following the opening was published in the Times that included a series of elaborately produced band concerts at Exposition Park’s Sunken Garden, a roaring gala reception, dedication of an aqueduct memorial fountain by a U.S. senator, the laying of a commemorative cornerstone at the State Seventh Regiment Armory, followed by another address officially opening the Los Angeles County Museum of History, Science, and Art, athletic games, and ending with a reception for distinguished guests hosted by the Board of Public Service Commissioners.

  All through the week the celebration continued, as did the praise for William Mulholland. The waterway was immediately recognized worldwide as the single greatest water project of its time. And the Chief, showered with honors and awards, was proclaimed everywhere as the West’s greatest man. Woodrow Wilson, Will Rogers, and other famous men heaped unstinting and well-deserved praise upon him. The Los Angeles Times paid its homage: “William Mulholland, the master of the aqueduct, the peer in practical results of the world’s best engineers: every man, woman, and child acknowledges a debt impossible to pay.”

  A hymn devoted to the aqueduct was published in the Evening Herald:

  For I carry a tale of promise to the cities and haunts of men;

  Painting the picture of acres—fulfilling my mission

  and then—

  Straight from the heart of the mountains, where peaks kiss the blue

  of the sky;

  Born in the mists of the morning—to the sea I have

  come—and to die.

  From the Daily News:

  Los Angeles sent forth her engineers; their instructions were to find water, plenty of water, the best of water, and complete their plans for bringing it any distance that might be necessary, to serve in abundance the needs of this city for generations. That was eight years ago. Today Los Angeles is celebrating the arrival of the water. There is no longer the trace of a shadow on the destiny of this wonderful city—all due to our Chief William Mulholland.

  People by the hundreds came up to him and clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Through it all, Mulholland remained calm and reserved, always giving credit to others.

  “The work now stands complete,” Mulholland wrote. “The thousands of men who have labored under adverse conditions of desert heat in the eight years since the
work was started have laid down their tools. Their reward has been that of a work well done and the confidence of a people not misplaced. They have no excuses to offer; no boasts to make. Their work will live after them, which is their reward.”

  It was a glorious time for the once-impoverished immigrant from Belfast. He had reached heights ordinary men could only imagine. As reporters clustered around him, he was asked would he ever return to his native Ireland now that the aqueduct was finished. “I never want to see the damn island again,” he said.

  “How about mayor? Will you run for mayor?”

  “I’d rather give birth to a porcupine backwards than be mayor of Los Angeles,” he said fervently, exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke.

  The idea of running for political office was far from Mulholland’s mind, and like many of the rough-hewn workers along the aqueduct line, he had a distrust of politicians and never imagined himself in that role. Still, a serious public effort was launched by political progressives to initiate his candidacy for mayor. Harrison Gray Otis and publisher E. T. Earl openly urged Mulholland to seek the office. Mulholland, flattered, gave his usual cynical response to the proposal. He despised politics and disdained politicians even more.