In order to raise funds and improve public relations, Papa arranged a series of meetings, then a two-month tour of his existing bridges for the rich and powerful. He included a core group of consultants: engineers, local political leaders, and the powerful contractor William Kingsley. Excluded was William M. “Boss” Tweed and many of his Tammany Hall cronies. Papa didn’t want the negative publicity the corrupt politician would surely bring. Even so, Tweed bribed his way into holdings of private stock in the New York and Brooklyn Bridge Company after state officials received his financial incentives to approve the project. The state charter gave control of the project to the stockholders and therefore they became most of the bridge committee.
The final stop on the tour was Papa’s crowning achievement: a double-decked suspension bridge spanning the swift and dangerous Niagara River. Papa was eager for me to meet the committee there. “You’ll charm the last dollar out of those turnips,” he said.
Wash had been on the site tour for the past two months, and I longed to see him, so after leaving Johnny with Millie, I headed north. On the train to Buffalo, I paced the aisle in anticipation. The prospect of visiting the falls both thrilled and terrified me. They were magnificent in pictures, but I wasn’t sure how I would react to the swiftness of the river or the roar of the falls. Panicking in front of so many people would be humiliating and certainly not helpful to Papa and Wash’s cause. I slowed my pace and hugged my elbows to me, forcing my mind to calm, imagining the security of Wash’s arms around me.
I changed trains in Buffalo, and Farrington met me at the station in Niagara Falls, then brought me by carriage to the bridge. As we stepped from the carriage, it seemed we were late. A dozen men held stovepipe hats to their heads as their overcoats whipped in the bitter wind. They gathered on the lower deck, high above the churning river, the falls thundering a short distance downriver. The sound assaulting my ears, the terrific height, and the sight of rushing water made me freeze in fright. Wash’s broad smile erased my fears only enough to keep me from bolting.
“Gentlemen, please avail yourselves of the view, and take a moment to meet my lovely wife, Emily.”
Some craned their necks at the train tracks above them while others peered into the great rapids below. A horse and buggy rushed by, and one of the men cleaved to the railing, his knuckles as white as the snow on the distant trees. Farrington and I traded a look. The deck rumbled, doing little to ease my jittery nerves. I approached the man, hoping to ease his discomfort while distracting myself from my own. Farrington introduced me.
“Benjamin Stone,” the man said in a clipped English accent, tipping his hat. He was dressed in a natty three-piece suit, the chain of his pocket watch stretched across his broad belly. “Railroad engineer and consultant.”
“Shall we move closer?” My hand guided him away from the edge. “It seems they are about to speak.”
Papa and Wash gathered the investors with much hand shaking and shoulder slapping.
“This is a fiasco.” Mr. Stone mopped his brow.
I blinked my surprise. “Pardon?”
Another large man waved his arms for attention, positioning himself front and center. Stone nodded in his direction. “That’s William Kingsley, a building contractor. We can count on him to raise our concerns.”
“Oh?”
Stone gave me an impatient glare. “It’s his men who would be put at risk during the construction.” His face softened. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t expect a lady to be knowledgeable of such things.”
Kingsley raised his voice, battling to be heard over the raging falls. “How can you compare this structure, a mere eight hundred feet long and secured between two solid rock cliffs, to a bridge spanning a much greater divide with no such support?”
Stone eyed the trusses supporting the railroad level above, a cold sweat collecting on his face even as I shivered.
“Did you work on this?” I asked, nodding toward the tracks above.
“Heavens, no. A foolhardy thing, and I predict a calamitous end to the practice of running trains over bridges.”
“I understand that plan was scuttled for the East River Bridge.”
“It took some persuading, but we prevailed on that one.” Stone lowered his voice, ensuring his words were out of earshot of others. “There are some powerful influences scheming to reintroduce the trains. We must remain vigilant.”
He spoke as if he’d quite forgotten who I was. He gazed into the churning waters below, his face frozen in horror.
My gut clenched in empathy. I wanted to guide him away.
“Eight hundred feet or eight thousand, what is the difference?” Papa waved dismissively. “I consider what a bridge must hold, then design it six times stronger than necessary.”
The crowd turned toward the sound of a train whistling in the distance. Wash showed Papa his pocket watch and nodded toward the ties and tracks above.
C. C. Martin, Papa’s second assistant engineer, approached. Tall and lanky, his elbows and knees seemed sharp enough to poke holes through his drooping suit. A dark, scraggly beard did little to improve his image. “Watch this, Mr. Stone.” Martin pointed at the train tracks above. “A railroad expert like you will appreciate it.”
But Stone held his top hat aloft as he elbowed his way to the front of the assembled crowd. “A bridge over the Ohio River recently collapsed in high winds. I suspect that engineer thought his bridge six times stronger than necessary as well.”
The group shifted uneasily, shouting, “Hear, hear.”
“It is we who will carry the guilt for any who perish on your bridge,” Stone shouted above the grumbling of the men, the roaring of the falls, and the approaching engine. “Four workers perished in Wheeling. How are you going to prevent such tragedies on a much larger project?”
“Faulty design caused the failure of the Wheeling bridge—”
A train thundered above us, shaking timbers and sending a hail of dirt and gravel upon us.
Cheers went up, but Stone’s eyes grew wide with terror as he held his arms and hands protectively over his head. He staggered from the crowd, crying, “No, no.” The squeal of brakes covered his cries of anguish.
Stone stood apart from the group, quivering and gulping, pointing to Papa and Wash, who wore broad smiles. He set his jaw and puffed out his chest, and fire replaced the fear in his eyes. “You seem to think this some sort of joke.” The group quieted as Stone’s voice rang out. “What do you know of the perils of locomotives? Have you factored in the tremendous forces of weight, the dynamics of motion, the power of nature?”
“Gentlemen.” Papa’s calm demeanor was a contrast to the shuddering bridge, the clatter of the exiting train, and the strident words of Stone. “The East River Bridge is a necessity. It has been studied, planned, and argued about for decades.” He flicked dirt from his lapel. “We must not be paralyzed by fear. Risks must be taken for progress to occur.”
Wash stepped forward, his golden hair and beard in contrast to his black hat and coat, his eyes capturing the attention of all. It seemed even the falls hushed as his voice rang with passion. “We have toured my father’s bridges, from strong and utilitarian like this one, to soaring works of art as we saw in Pittsburgh. Never have his designs failed, even with steam locomotives crossing a chasm as great as this. We have studied in Europe and refined what we learned there. We have no doubt of our facility. None. Gentlemen, the time is upon us. If we do not undertake building the East River Bridge, someone else will—perhaps with disastrous results.” He scanned his audience. “And in that circumstance, we might indeed find ourselves culpable.”
The committee cheered, perhaps because the train had faded into the distance. Farrington sidled up to Martin and me. “Don’t worry. We’ll prevail. The men know Stone’s a bit—as they say in England—bonkers.”
I suspected something personal caused Stone’s trepidat
ion. Fear had its reasons, and I could empathize with Stone. Rivers made me bonkers as well.
Ten
Manhattan
Papa’s tour was a great success in gaining approval and seed money, but the work of fund-raising largely remained. Shortly after returning from Niagara, I pleaded the case with other possible benefactors. The first visit was to Phineas Barnum’s American Museum (featuring Giants! Dwarfs! Industrious Fleas, Educated Dogs, and Man-Eating Tigers!).
Wash had built a three-foot-wide scale model of the bridge to pique the showman’s interest, and I intended to surprise PT with the gift for his museum. I went alone, as Wash did not seem to enjoy his company.
“There’s no competing with a showman,” he had said.
I lugged the model on a cart by ferry, where it attracted much attention. After many curious looks and questions, I uncovered it for the passengers to see. They exclaimed in wonder and chortled at a comment regarding the irony of a bridge on a ferry. I took the opportunity to give them a quick explanation. After that, I had plenty of assistance getting the cumbersome cart and model into a carriage in Manhattan.
The smell of coal fires was especially strong, like a manufacturing plant, as the carriage rounded the corner to the American Museum. But I remembered no factory nearby.
The coachman opened my door. “Are you sure this is the place, ma’am?”
The wind shifted, and acrid smoke choked us. Through the ashen cloud, beyond the front gate, the museum appeared as a burnt-out shell. Gray wisps curled from heaps of rubble. I ran to the gate and pushed through, my eyes stinging from smoke. Please, God, let everyone be safe.
Several workers poked through the debris, their clothes and faces blackened with soot.
“Can you tell me where I might find Mr. Barnum?” I steadied my voice while the foul air scorched my lungs.
“Just around there.” A worker pointed with a coal-colored board.
On what must have been the grand staircase, PT, in a black cape lined in red satin, perched like a giant red-winged blackbird over a charred forest, cradling a ball of fabric in his hands.
He answered the obvious question before I could ask. “A lantern, knocked over by a breeze.” He shook his head. “A breeze.”
I waited for a show of anger or his philosophical wit, but he was quietly grim, his eyes vacant, his movements slow and purposeless.
“I’m so sorry. Are you—is everyone—all right?”
“A few of my workers suffered some burns, I’m afraid. Thankfully, most of the animals escaped. Unlike this.” He held up a scorched and tattered tailcoat, exposing his forearm, streaked with angry red burns and blisters.
I lightly tapped his uninjured arm. “It’s only a coat. I’m more concerned about you.”
He leaned close to me, narrowed his eyes, and growled, “I am the great P. T. Barnum. Creator of magnificent museums and things beyond imagination.”
I took a step back, alarmed at his tone.
“Have no doubt about me. I will rise like a phoenix.” He turned away with a theatrical flourish. It might have been comical if not for the circumstances.
* * *
A month or so later, PT wrote, The task of rebuilding and finding accommodations in New York City for my collections have dominated my time, but I am eager to hear more about your bridge project.
We met at his temporary headquarters near the Battery. I brought some plan drawings, reserving the scale model for a more permanent home. Spring was bursting with tulips and daffodils, so he put on his top hat, and we set out for some fresh air. We walked along the banks at the southern tip of Manhattan, extended like the toe of a ballerina where the Hudson meets the East River. I was grateful for my long stride to match his fast footing.
Although PT didn’t mention the injuries and losses from the fire, neither did he show me his latest magic tricks. “What do you need?” he asked in a brusque, businesslike tone.
“We need all the support we can muster, on both sides of the river. Mr. Roebling estimates the bridge will cost six to seven million dollars to build.”
“Husband or father-in-law?”
My bootheel caught in the coarse gravel, and I stumbled. “The latter.”
He held an arm out to steady me. “Quite a challenge.”
“My father-in-law?”
“The money.”
I unfolded a map. “We’re about eight blocks away from the site.”
He offered his arm. “Shall we walk it?”
As we strolled, I blurted my memorized review of the plan.
PT drew a lit cigar from his jacket pocket. Apparently, he couldn’t resist a small dose of magic. Taking a draw, his mouth curled into a one-sided smile.
My cheeks warmed despite the cool day. He had an uncanny ability to unsettle me.
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a fistful of bread crumbs. Squealing seagulls and cooing pigeons appeared as if on cue, and he threw a great fan of food for them. He sprinkled some crumbs on the top of his hat, and a pigeon landed on it, pecking away.
Dodging an emboldened gull, I pressed on despite his effort at creating a tiny circus. “Imagine how exciting it would be. Uniting two great cities—the amenities of New York plus the lovely residential areas and charm of Brooklyn.”
“A fine proposition,” he said. “I believe my audience will double with the quicker transit. Fortune favors the brave and never helps a man who does not help himself.”
“I’ve heard that. Who said it?”
“I did.”
I twisted my wedding ring about my finger, contemplating financial negotiations with someone who spewed grand phrases but nothing substantial enough to report to Papa and Wash. He seemed to relish the edge of propriety. Perhaps that was the means to reach him. “You could move your headquarters to Brooklyn. I hear you have quite the following there. One woman in particular.”
“Ah, you tempt me, fair lady, but I’m afraid my business keeps me here.” He removed the cigar stub from his mouth and chuckled. “But I do have a mason I can lend you.”
Eleven
Cold Spring, New York
On a warm afternoon a few weeks later, well-dressed women outnumbered the few men, including GK and PT, mingling on my mother’s manicured lawn. Mother had never allowed widowhood to affect her station in life. Teas, garden parties, card games, all went on as usual, with or without a gentleman friend to accompany her. The sun, which would never have had the temerity to be absent from one of her events, shone high in a cloudless sky. Groundkeepers had set up one hundred small wooden chairs facing a makeshift stage.
From the window of my old upstairs bedroom, I spied Mother entering the back door. Her heels ticked across the oak floor from the hall to the formal dining room.
“Emily? Em-i-ly!”
I ignored her calls. Without my prior knowledge or consent, Mother had included a presentation by me in her event. She and Papa had become frequent correspondents and were likely colluding. He had asked her to spread the fund-raising word, and she was only too happy to volunteer me.
I had spent most of the morning writing my speech, and my mind weighed heavy with the dread of delivering it.
PT was so gifted at this. Indeed, his fame was much more widespread than I had known when we first met. Furthermore, he seemed to enjoy the attention of a crowd, lived for it in fact. Glancing out the window once more, I saw him holding court with the audience below. I could not make out his words, but his admirers stood in a semicircle around him, mouths agape in rapt attention.
I dawdled, sprawled across my old bed, flipping through an album of drawings and daguerreotypes. One was devoted to my mother’s grandchildren, blurry images of smiling babies in white bonnets. I gasped. There were none of Johnny; I had yet to send one.
Another yellowed album had twelve pages, one for each of the children
Mother had borne. She had lost five to childhood infirmities before I came along. And then we lost Elizabeth.
GK was quite gifted at portraits, and a quick glance at the album might tell even a stranger the story—sturdy, well-fed children with a vague unease or unhappiness about them. After the accident, strict rules were enforced in our home, as Mother was determined that none of her surviving children would be taken from her.
Pa had been my hero; I eagerly awaited his footfalls upon our front steps each evening. He would twist my curls around his finger and say, “You have eyes the color of money,” eliciting a stern look from Mother and a laugh from the others. We would beg him to take us on a buggy ride or to dip a line in a nearby lake.
“Rowboats are no place for a child,” Mother would say, instead directing us to our books or a chore left undone.
No longer could we run barefoot through the lush green lawn, as Mother thought we might get hookworms, while attending birthday parties threatened typhoid and consumption. Swinging on vines was strictly out-of-bounds.
The sound of cheering below drew me back to the window. A clump of people gathered near the wellhead. “Ooh, aah,” they said in unison.
Long, giant bubbles floated above them, re-forming into great spheres that glistened in the sunshine. When the group parted, the source of the bubbles became apparent. PT dipped two sticks attached by loose strings into a bucket. He lifted the contraption out of the bucket and spread the dripping sticks in the breeze, creating the amazing bubbles. A tiny monkey in a red vest screeched and chased the bubbles or hid behind a guest in mock terror.
Mother’s calls echoed up the stairs, and I scowled at my speech notes scattered across the desk, butterflies flitting in my stomach. My impulse was to flee, but instead I found solace by turning another album page—GK’s drawing of me holding a long twig. That was the day, about a year after my sister’s accident, when the same impulse to flee nearly took my life.
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