MARCH 23, 1889
WASHINGTON, D.C.
From the growing ruckus outside the door, President Harrison could tell the time was approaching. Men who’d arrived early had tried to keep their voices down, but their excitement couldn’t be contained.
One scrawled signature, and the news would go flying across the country. Congressmen would rush to their offices, newspapermen would run to their wires, and the message would race from coast to coast.
Rush. Run. Race. That was the chaos his pen would unleash. The greatest race in history, with a starting line over three hundred miles long and the finish line wherever one found it. In less than a month, tens of thousands of people would line up on foot, on horse, in wagons, buggies, trains, and even on bicycles to race for the greatest prize ever—their share of a nearly two-million-acre bonanza, almost three thousand square miles of prairie.
President Harrison took one last sip from his cup of Darjeeling tea and set aside the tariff proposals he was studying. He motioned for his secretary to clear his desk before the impatient guests entered and the ceremony commenced.
This proclamation represented hope to so many—immigrant farmers crowded on the East Coast with no room to plant, black sharecroppers from the South who’d never found the freedom the war had promised, young men and women ready to strike out on their own and leave behind the dusty duty of their fathers’ trades. With all the Indian tribes settled, the Unassigned Lands sat fertile and empty while the nation waited, breathless, for his decision.
Congress had already amended the bill. All it lacked was his signature.
They entered with a burst of energy. Handshakes all around, with whispers from the Kansas delegation about the hordes already amassing on their border. Most of the representatives crowded around his desk, but some lingered by the door, jockeying to be the first out to make the announcement. The country held its breath. Across the plains, cannons were primed for celebratory firing, and punch bowls were set out for more genteel festivities.
There were no guarantees. Many would suffer disappointment, but he was giving them a chance. That was all they wanted.
President Harrison dipped his pen into the inkwell. Let them run. It was in the air and in their blood.
With the stroke of his pen, the matter was settled, and the core of the nation was forever changed.