My classmates and siblings had teased me about my speech, for I had difficulty pronouncing the s, z, and th sounds. This earned no sympathy from Mother, who made me stand in front of ever-larger groups, repeating the most difficult words.
“E-nun-ci-ate,” Mother said at the dinner table one day after I had stumbled through the prayer. My siblings, even my beloved father, were laughing at me. I could bear it no longer and ran out of the house and toward the dirt road. The woodland across the street was forbidden territory. Autumn had painted the trees with brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows. Soon, cold, clear nights would rob the forest, leaving the trees to face the winter stark and barren.
The Hudson River sparkled through the woods. I missed Elizabeth and longed to run down the hill to its banks to be closer to her. I wanted us to be together, to watch the steamboats ply the river’s great width. But the memory of the swift current and several lashings to my bottom enforced my boundaries.
I found a long stick and broke it over my knee to make a sharp point. Then I drew a spiral in the dirt road, bigger and bigger, making a game I had played with Elizabeth. Lost in my design, I didn’t hear a horse-drawn carriage until it was nearly upon me. I leapt out of the way barely in time to avoid the thundering hooves and carriage wheels. The shouts of the angry driver lingered as I stood in a cloud of dust.
* * *
The stairs squeaked as Mother ascended. She appeared in my doorframe, catching me in my chemise and petticoats, my dress tossed aside in the stifling room. I wasn’t about to put on a fussy dress and itchy crinolines before it was absolutely necessary.
“Emily! What on earth? We’re about to begin!”
“Why did I agree to this?” I muttered, mostly to myself. I had successfully avoided other speaking engagements, but it seemed my luck was running out.
“These are important people,” she reminded me as she replaced an errant hairpin in her tightly wound and graying bun.
“I’m sure. But I’m not the expert they want to hear from.”
“You learned plenty enough in Europe. And surely, you can explain the bridge’s importance to those who will benefit from it.”
“I’m so inept at public speaking, Mother. Can’t you make an excuse for me?”
“Fine. I’ll have GK do it. He’s sure to enchant the audience. Of course, I’d have to introduce him as Major Warren, an engineer with nothing to do with this bridge.” She wiped her reading spectacles with her handkerchief. “I’m sure he won’t be disappointed in you.”
“I’ll be down in a moment.” Effectively goaded, I dressed in a hurry, pulling off my petticoat and letting the crinoline caging stand alone, fashion conventions be darned.
Outside, I was pleased to spot Mother’s friend Eleanor.
“Emily, so good to see you. How is our little Johnny?”
“Growing, one and a half years old, and expecting to be treated like a king. The reign of terror begins.”
“Ah yes. God made toddlers adorable to make up for their swath of destruction. My goodness, we’ve hardly seen the little chap.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up, sensing judgment. I set it aside with a breezy “He’s in Trenton with his father at the moment. We didn’t think he would enjoy speeches.”
“Who does?” Eleanor glanced around to ensure we didn’t have an audience. Then she pulled out several small, thin slivers of iron. “I want you to try these—a new type of hairpin. You’re the perfect test subject.”
Her own hair hung in wisps gathered in a bun the size of a walnut. I could see why she needed my help.
The slivers, unlike regular hairpins, were doubled and connected at one end. She prized one open with her teeth and slid it into a lock of my hair. “I’m applying for a patent. What do you think?”
I rubbed a sore spot where she had raked the pin across my scalp. “It’s rather scratchy.”
Mother’s eldest friend, Henrietta VanDrie, joined us, a mass of gray hair piled precariously on top of her head, her purple dress buttoned halfway up her neck. Her rather loose tongue probably eliminated her as Eleanor’s “test subject.”
“How’s that Roebling clan?” she asked, her nasal accent belying her Brooklyn roots.
The arrival of Carrie Beebe spared me from recounting the antics of my large and complicated set of in-laws. Out of Carrie’s earshot, Henrietta referred to her as “the mouse” due to her soft speech, drab hair color, and habit of scurrying in, unnoticed.
Carrie passed around copies of her manuscript-in-progress, entitled Violets. “I’d love your opinions, ladies. You’re all in here somewhere.”
A few eyebrows raised. I politely took a copy and feigned interest in page fifty-seven. More than her story, I was interested in the creation of the manuscripts themselves. Carrie had procured a prototype of a typing machine and was happily punching out her stories on it, reporting any issues back to the inventors.
A male voice boomed. “My, what a delightful collection of young ladies.” The circle of women parted, giggling with hands over mouths, as P. T. Barnum joined us. He proceeded to delight them with card tricks until, catching my eye, he asked them to excuse the two of us.
“You’ve hardly said a word and ignored all my best tricks.”
“My apologies. I’m rather preoccupied.” I waved my notes, now droopy from the humidity and my moist gloves.
“Ah. Stage fright.”
“Please take your seats.” Mother herded everyone to rows of chairs. She stepped to the lectern in front of them, in full control as always. I fanned myself with my notes, my heart climbing into my throat.
“Ignore them.” PT touched my cheek. “Look at me.”
I did as he asked, his warm blue eyes showing a tenderness that allowed me to relax my shoulders from their rigid position.
“I will place myself in a middle seat. Seek me out. The audience will think you are addressing each one of them. Then, if you get stuck, make them all disappear.” He lifted my chin. “Speak as if I were the only one listening.”
After a few welcoming remarks, Mother said, “And so, it is with much pride that I introduce my daughter, Mrs. Washington Roebling.”
A smattering of applause greeted me as I made my way to the front.
Taking a deep breath, I peeked at the audience, who stared back at me expectantly. Sweat dampened my brow, and a rivulet ran down my backbone. My hands shook as I fumbled with my notes. Sweat blurred my vision; the crowd swirled in front of me as if I were underwater. The hushed murmur flowed like water through my ears with bits of conversation popping through.
I tried to regain my composure, closing my eyes and opening them to see GK in the front row, nodding encouragement.
Clutching the lectern with each hand, I began. “A bridge connecting New York and Brooklyn is a necessity for progress in our state and our country. When complete, it will be a monument to—”
Hecklers shouted objections and questions.
“How much of our taxpayer money is going for this?”
“Another of Boss Tweed’s scams.”
My vision narrowed, and I wiped my hands on my dress and fanned my face with my notes. My eyes darted around the audience, seeking PT. “In the interest of everyone’s time, please hold your questions until the end, and I promise to answer each one.”
I finished my speech, stronger, more confident under PT’s steady gaze. The audience clapped politely after I had conveyed my message, but whether it swayed anyone’s opinion was another kettle of fish.
My relief at finishing was short-lived as I remembered my promise to Papa. The thought of repeating this speech over and over made my stomach churn anew. My mind spun toward a means to rid myself of this obligation. Perhaps I could find refuge in motherhood. Or magic.
Twelve
Brooklyn
I was late. Wash had reques
ted my presence at the waterfront at 9:00 a.m. sharp, but Johnny captivated me, squealing in delight as we sprawled on the floor in his room, bouncing a rubber ball between us. Now scampering about on two sturdy legs and beginning to talk, he was at the age when a mother falls in love with her baby all over again. His squeals made me laugh and squeal with him.
Mother snapped her fingers for our attention. “Emily, you have fifteen minutes to get down there.” She made a grand wave toward the door. “Now shoo.”
I picked up Johnny, gave him a squeeze, and kissed the top of his head, taking in his soapy baby scent. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You really ought to procure a nanny.” She pulled my squirming, protesting baby away.
“We’re managing well without one.” I spoke through clenched teeth. Inwardly, I agreed with her but felt obliged to support the opinion of Wash, who felt raising our son ourselves was the more modern approach. I kissed the soft pink hands Johnny held out to me.
Donning my hat and gloves, I hurried out the front door. The coachman paced the cobblestones in front of our carriage. A gust of wind stole the little green cap off my head, and he bent to retrieve it. Apparently, Eleanor’s hairpins couldn’t substitute for a proper hat pin.
The end of June in New York can be clammy and chilly or full of glorious sunshine, a harbinger of warm days to come. That particular day was of the former, unpleasant sort. The air was scented with the coal fires of winter, and I berated myself for not bringing a wrap.
The clickety-clack of the wheels seemed to tick off each maddening second during the brief ride to the waterfront. A deep fog had settled in overnight, but change was in the air as the wind picked up, breaking blue holes in the sky. On a ridge above the shoreline, swirling puffs of white gauze parted, revealing children wearing short coats as they played in the street. The muddy brown East River slowly reappeared, full of choppy whitecaps as it made its way toward the Narrows.
We stopped at the waterfront where small waves lapped sand and pebbles. The driver offered his arm as I stepped out, considerable relief on his face to have delivered his charge more or less on time. I made out my father-in-law’s unmistakable frame and purposeful stride along the pier that ran beside the ferry slip and took in a deep breath to brace myself.
Years of meetings, speeches, and hard work had raised enough funds to get the project moving. I had expected a small crowd and reporters from the newspapers, but only Wash and a worker setting up a tripod were present on the narrow ribbon of shoreline.
“Ah, there you are, my lovely.” Wash beamed at me as I stood above him on the pier. In some ways, he was so very much like his father: calm, calculated, methodical. But Papa lacked his son’s warmth, the openness and playfulness that drew me in. When work went well, Wash was happy and engaging. Indeed, now he was engaged up to his shins in river muck, shoveling dirt into small mounds. “This is Mr. Young, Father’s surveyor.”
“Foreman, as of yesterday,” Mr. Young corrected with a tip of his cap. He was of medium height and build, dishwater-brown hair, and cheeks scarred from youthful blemishes. Many men, including GK, hid them with beards, but Mr. Young had no such vanity. He pieced together his tripod, compass, and scope and fiddled with its settings.
“Please pardon my tardiness.” I glanced around. There was no one but the seagulls, whose cries seemed to berate my absence for this special event. “Did I miss the ceremony? Johnny had just—”
Wash laughed. “It’s a big moment for us, but not enough fanfare to interest the public.” His eyes sought Papa, who was at the end of the pier, looking across the river through a spyglass. “Father wasn’t interested in even this bit of ceremony.” To Young, he said, “Even though he’s been obsessed with building this bridge since I was ten.”
“I know,” Young said. “I’ve been with him almost that long. You made a wise choice, heading off to war.”
“As it turns out, the escape was only temporary.”
The fog was lifting, and I could make out a flash of red across the water on the Manhattan shore. Relief at not having disappointed them lifted within me as well.
Wash waved Young away from the tripod and peered through the scope. “Father has made contact.” He turned to us and lifted his shovel. In an official tone, he pronounced, “And now, with two witnesses, I proclaim the New York and Brooklyn Bridge Project to be officially underway.” He plunged his shovel deep into the muck, and I clapped at his proclamation.
“I better go tell Mr. Roebling.” I glanced at the pier, but only a wisp of fog marked where Papa had stood. “Where—?”
“He probably went out on the rocks to get a better view.” Wash shrugged, his boot pressing the shoulder of the shovel, scraping into the grit.
I hurried down the weathered gray boards of the pier, picking up my skirts to avoid tripping. I shuddered at the thought of having to leap into the brown water to save Papa. Despite my experience in Europe, I still loathed rivers. I pushed those thoughts away. A person shouldn’t allow one tragedy to cause yet another.
As I approached the end of the pier, there was Papa, jumping from one to another unattached piling. My panic ebbed, relief washing over me. I called to him as he clambered among boulders, black and slick with river slime, jutting out of the water past the pilings, but my voice faded into the fog.
Busy with his footwork, he didn’t see me. He carried a red signal flag, its staff about ten feet tall. A gust of wind made it snap sharply and caused him to teeter on the slippery rock. He knelt down to gain stability, waves lapping at his knees while he lifted the spyglass that hung from a strap around his neck and peered across the water.
As Papa lifted his signal flag, the ghostly image of a double-decked ferryboat appeared through the fog, blocking the view across the river. Trails of black soot streamed from its twin smokestacks, and commuters crowded the rails fore and aft of the paddle wheel. Papa checked his pocket watch and shook his head. The ferry probably didn’t keep a schedule as precise as his own.
As Papa could neither see nor hear me, I turned back toward Wash. A gust of salty wind made me shiver, and I rubbed my arms, longing for the warmth of the nursery. If I returned home now, there was still time to play with Johnny before his nap.
Wash was drawing lines in the shoreline sand with the shovel and speaking to Young. “We drilled core samples in this area and hit bedrock at forty to fifty feet.” He looked up at me with a grin. “You tell him?”
“No, he needs all his concentration to perform acrobatics on the pilings, and now he seems upset that the ferry is in his way.”
Wash scratched his beard. “Ha! He hates ferries.”
The ferry approached Papa’s signal flag, the churn of its engines growing louder. But something was amiss. The ferry was travelling far too quickly, as if the land had popped out of the fog before it was expected.
I ran back down the pier. A moment later, Wash and Young’s heavy boots pounded the boards behind me. The ferry made its turn toward the pier and once again blocked the view across the river.
“Late again, blasted ferryboat,” Papa yelled from his perch atop a black boulder. “You’ll soon be replaced by real engineering, you bucket of bolts!” He shook his fist at the boat, and passengers waved back.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Papa, get back here!” An aura of foreboding filled me, sensing a danger that Papa did not.
He waved to me, climbed off the rocks, and stepped across the pilings toward the pier. The boat barreled ahead, dangerously off course, heading for the pilings rather than the slip.
“Slow her down!” Papa yelled. The wind picked up, blowing hard off the water and drenching him in waves that smashed against the pilings.
Passengers cried out, thrust off their feet as the boat overcorrected its course in a rapid turn. The ferry came straight at Papa, blowing its horn. He tossed aside the signal flag and stepped quickly ac
ross the pilings. Climbing up iron struts on the corner post of the pier, his right boot became jammed between a strut and the ferryboat slip, leaving his foot hanging over the empty slip. A loud blare of the horn filled the air, longer this time. I froze in place, watching in horror and not knowing how to help without risking my own life.
Wash caught up with me. “Father! Get away from there!” To me, he hollered “Get back!” as he climbed down toward Papa.
I tried to follow him, thinking the two of us could safely move Papa out of danger, but Young grabbed my shoulders.
“Please, ma’am. Stay here.” He rushed to help Wash.
“Papa! Move!” I stayed out of the way, frightened and useless as an ant under a falling tree.
The ferry horn blew long and loud, then was nearly drowned out by the gnashing of the engine’s gears as they ground into reverse. The paddle wheel frothed the water as it strained to change direction. Passengers crowded the rails, yelling and gesturing frantically. Instead of an ant, I became a girl, struggling against a raging river current.
Papa struggled to pull his boot from the crevice, lost his balance, and nearly fell into the water. He tried to unlace his boot but was unable to untie the knot. The ferry slammed into the free-standing pilings and snapped them with a loud CRACK. The boat shifted sideways from the impact and slammed into the end of the pier, its boards shaking beneath me. Wooden planks heaved and crumpled from the force, pulling Papa toward the water and further entangling his foot. I screamed for Papa. I screamed for Elizabeth. No! The river must not take another!
The passengers screamed also as they toppled from the impact, as the ferry continued its uncontrolled landing. It smashed against the slip, now only a few yards from Papa, his legs dangling over the water and he still trapped in its path.
Climbing through the jagged, broken boards, Young reached him, grabbed him under the shoulders, and pulled him back from the water. Wash lay next to Papa, trying to pry out his foot. He was also in the path of the ferry. My mind went white. I saw nothing but a head of honey hair against the silver-and-gray one, a broad back in a dark shirt.
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