“Thank you, Mr. O’Brien. Good night.” After closing the door, I leaned heavily upon it. The news hit me like a ton of boulders. Something should be done, needed to be done for these men. And Wash—he was apparently sicker than the others. What if he were to succumb?
I pushed these thoughts from my mind. Wash was doing everything possible to prevent further injuries and now, it seemed, deaths from the mysterious caisson disease.
I knelt next to him on the divan and vigorously massaged his legs.
“Ah, it doesn’t do a bit of good,” he grumbled. “Quit wasting whiskey on my legs and put some in a glass.”
I did as he asked, pouring myself a finger of whiskey as well, then sat beside him, fatigue setting in and replacing some of the worry. “What caused the fire?”
“O’Brien has problems working in the caisson, as you know. So I swapped him with Einar, who had never been down there before. We hang dinner pails on pegs on ceiling beams to keep them out of the way, and Einar used a candle, trying to find his. He must have fallen asleep during the hazard briefing.
“Anyway, I was watching Young wolf down a third chicken leg, wondering how he could eat so much, when his face took on a strange yellow light. Behind me, a flame was licking up a seam to the ceiling.”
“Dear God.” I took Wash’s empty glass.
“The workers formed a bucket brigade and manned the hoses. I turned the spigots full on, but the smoke and flames quickly engulfed the ceiling and a support beam.” His eyes flicked, seeming to calculate how much to share. “Einar was filling a bucket when a ceiling beam cracked over his head, shooting out flames as if doused in kerosene. The beam collapsed and pinned him to the ground. Dunn and I wrapped rags around our hands and beat back the flames, then we lifted the beam off of him.”
“Is Einar all right?”
“A few burns on his face and hands and his hair is pretty singed, but he’ll be fine.” Wash rubbed his temples. “Then there was a loud bang and air roared up the burn hole. The caisson walls bulged, creaking and moaning.”
Bile rose in my throat. I recapped the salts with shaky hands and poured myself more whiskey.
“I sent a messenger up top to turn on all six compressors. We were losing pressure fast, and the ceiling started trembling. I ordered everyone out except four men on hoses. Bricks on the new support columns had shifted out of place, and I worried the whole thing would collapse. I climbed a ladder to inspect the hole and sprayed water into the roof infrastructure. Then we patched up the hole and things stabilized.”
“Now we can add fireman to your duties.”
“Good gracious, no.”
“So is the caisson safe?” My own question seemed silly to me, my lips striving to be logical. There was nothing safe about that blasted caisson.
He paused, stretched his fingers, then balled them into fists. “We’ll do inspections. Farrington already drilled some holes.”
“I don’t understand. You said you had to patch a hole to keep things stabilized.”
“The roof is not a solid, flat structure. It’s courses of timber, built at right angles, with space in between.” He coughed and paused to catch his breath. “I’m worried that unseen above the ceiling, flames could be licking up the courses until they hit the metal barrier of the roof. Then they would spread laterally.” He pressed his hands together as if in prayer, raising them up, then pulling them apart.
“I had Farrington drill small sight holes to monitor any flame-ups. We have all the compressors going to compensate until we can patch it all up. But enough of that.” He eyed the bedraggled bloomer costume I still wore. “What in tarnation have you got on?”
“You like it?” Relief at a new topic washed over me. “It’s my new bloomer costume. Made it myself. Still haven’t found a willing seamstress.”
“It has a few design flaws.” He fingered the raw edge of the hem. “Why don’t I make one for you? It probably won’t be any worse.” His laughter dissolved into a cough.
I frowned. “Please don’t make light of my work. This is an important cause.”
“I’m not joking. I’ll make your bloomer costume. Learned how to sew in the army. Mostly saddles and patches, but it’s all the same.”
“Don’t be absurd. When would you have the time?”
He picked up a journal and pencil from the tea table and sketched with a tremulous hand. “How is garment design any different from engineering? Analyze the problem, create a design to solve it. Choose your materials, build to specifications.” He mumbled as he drew.
“You work eighteen hours a day. This isn’t your problem to solve for me.”
Waving away my concerns, Wash sketched, his hand regaining some steadiness. He outlined with broad, sure strokes. Pausing in thought, his eyes fell on Carrie’s Violets manuscript, abandoned on my reading chair.
“Must incorporate something of beauty for my pretty lady.” Flowers bloomed in his design. “I’ll have the time. The site doctor has confined me to home.”
He said it so casually, I almost missed it. Matching his composed tone, I asked, “What exactly did Dr. Smith say?” I surreptitiously gave his waxy leg a little poke. Could he feel anything? I pressed hard—too hard—until he moved his leg.
“I’ve got caisson disease, no surprise. He’s forbidden me to go down in the caisson for a while. I need to rest my brain and joints in normal conditions to prevent permanent damage—or some such nonsense.”
“Permanent damage? How can you be so calm? You’re ruining your health!”
“Easy, dear girl. This will pass. It always does. But I must stay home for now. Well, for quite some time.” His eyes avoided mine.
“How long, Wash?” I rubbed my pulsing temples.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He bounced his eyebrows. “Four weeks—or forever. He doesn’t really know.”
“But there’s another caisson to build. How will the project proceed without you? Will the board appoint another chief engineer?”
“No one else is qualified. I can work from here. In any event, sewing would be good therapy for my hands and legs. I’m sure the good doctor would approve.”
I softened. He needed to hear of my love and support more than my concern. And I certainly didn’t want him to think he wasn’t welcome at home. “It will be nice to have you home for a change.” I held his face in my hands and kissed his forehead.
He brought two fingers to his lips. “You missed.”
I kissed him again, closing my eyes against tears, my mind spinning with the turn of events.
“Hey now, none of that.” Wash wiped a tear that had managed to escape. He held up his sketch of the bloomer costume, far better than anything I could create. “This will prove quite useful. You’ll see. I’ll need you to take messages to the men for me.”
* * *
So I became a messenger. I soon dispensed with the time-consuming carriage and rode horseback to and from the work site several times a day, bearing a journal with drawings, instructions, and not a few irate responses. I was grateful for what Wash had taught me, for understanding the basics made me a better interpreter. As the information grew more complicated and I proved a dependable translator, the men grew more comfortable with me and their language less guarded in my presence.
There were difficulties, with much at stake. One evening, I presented a list of complaints from the company building the Manhattan caisson off-site, but Wash dismissed my concerns, tossing aside my traveling journal. “The design is sound.”
“But it doesn’t take into account so many things.” I stabbed my finger on the detail from his diagram of the redesigned supply chute. This one was to be round rather than square. “For example, this no longer matches up with this.” I drew a crude diagram of the chute raising from the caisson and not quite matching the opening at the top.
“I see.” Wash
designed modifications for the wayward chute and numerous other details, considering improvements in materials and technology since his father’s day. He had to stay many steps ahead of the construction so that preparations could be made for the proper mix of tradesmen, tools, and supplies.
These tasks were difficult on such a massive project even with continuous on-site supervision. They were immensely more difficult to conduct through a messenger. My mind reeled with new information, my dreams filled with numbers and diagrams and men pointing fingers and shouting at me.
Each day that passed with men working in the Brooklyn caisson ticked like a clockwork bomb. I badgered Young about speeding up the shifts, getting the men out as soon as possible. I made a firm rule of no more candles in the caisson, and we added more limelights.
No one wanted the caisson work done more than Young, as he suffered nausea and headaches every evening when he left the site. He and C. C. Martin, who filled Wash’s role on-site, came to our home at shift’s end. We sat in the parlor, and they shared the day’s events with me while Wash remained upstairs.
One particular evening, I offered them a drink, and Martin gripped the glass with a steady hand.
“Mr. Martin, the work in the caisson doesn’t seem to affect you,” I said.
“Aw, he stays topside all day.” Young held up a hand, refusing a drink, then tucked his hands into his armpits.
I wasn’t fooled; they were trembling.
“We must take care, Mrs. Roebling, to enter the caisson only when absolutely necessary and then only for the amount of time called for. Mr. Young takes unnecessary risks and faces the consequences.” Martin put down his glass and stood to leave, smoothing his trousers, somehow unblemished during the long work day.
“That’s a load of donkey dung and you know it.” Young lowered his eyes. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. He gets me riled up.”
“Quite all right. So, Mr. Martin, is it your opinion that Mr. Roebling takes unnecessary risks?”
Martin’s hat, halfway to his head, changed direction as he pressed it to his chest instead. “Why no, I would never say that.”
“Good night, gentlemen.” I escorted them to the door. The suffering and risk to all the workers weighed heavily on my mind. I vowed to visit them and speak to Wash and the doctor about any support we could provide. But still, O’Brien’s words echoed in my ears. Five dead. Five dead. Five dead.
Seventeen
1871
Setting stone on the tower halted for the winter, although work repairing the burnt infrastructure below continued. C. C. Martin had, for the most part, taken charge of daily operations, and I worked closely with him to ensure Wash’s instructions were followed to the letter. Although a capable engineer, Martin lacked Wash’s urgent drive and passion for the project.
In mid-January, Martin and I climbed among the granite blocks and equipment, trying to get a vantage point of the tower, now protruding nearly twenty feet above the water. Cranes lifted great blocks of stone from a barge to the tower in preparation for laying when the weather warmed.
“How much weight can the caisson bear?” Martin had to yell, though he was nearly beside me, the wind carrying away his words.
“Mr. Roebling said it’ll hold.”
Pride crept into my voice, and Martin tilted his head with what passed as a smile. Wash and I had spent hours calculating the strength and stresses on the foundation, factoring in the support piers, the walls, and the amount of roof structure known to be sound. I had made countless treks back and forth, confirming or refuting the stability of every last support beam. Two horses were kept saddled up for me so that one could rest between rides. These trips sometimes numbered as many as a dozen a day and often went long into the evening.
Satisfied, Martin opened his mouth with another question when we heard the booming voice of Benjamin Stone. I stiffened when the worker with him turned and pointed us out. He marched toward us, his purposeful stride and glaring face like an oncoming storm.
Taking the journal from my hands, Martin said, “Think I’d better talk to him myself.”
Stone tipped his hat and handed an official document up to me on my granite perch. “Mrs. Roebling, Mr. Martin. I’ll get right to the point. The committee is exceedingly displeased with this arrangement.”
I briefly flipped through the document, another bridge committee screed concerning a lack of confidence in Wash’s ability to manage the project. “I assure you, Mr. Roebling is still fully in charge.”
Martin scrambled down from the stone block and held out a bony hand to assist me.
Stone snorted. Peering about for what seemed an eternity, he turned his gaze back to us. “Ahem. I haven’t seen him in charge. This is an order from the bridge committee. If Mr. Roebling is not recovered and able to fully assume his duties in two weeks, construction will be ceased until we can find a suitable replacement.”
* * *
When I returned home, Johnny and Miss Mann had long since gone to bed, but a comforting scent of pot roast greeted me as I slipped in the front door. Wash hunched over the sewing machine, surrounded by piles of golden-yellow fabric.
Hugging him from behind, his warmth soothed my frosty cheeks and hands. “I should be doing that.”
“Not if you wish to appear in public in it.” He held up a nicely tailored short skirt with embroidered flowers. “This shorter length is more practical. I added peonies and violets. What do you think?”
I traced the elegant needlework. “How do you know so much about flowers?”
“I studied botany at Rensselaer, quite enjoyed it.” He tucked away needles and blue, purple, and green embroidery thread. “Try it on.”
As I changed into the midthigh skirt, he made notations in his thick notebook. It seemed I couldn’t muster the skill to cook or sew a garment, while Wash effortlessly shifted from one area of expertise to another.
“Now, for tomorrow, I’ve described in great detail—” He took in the sight of me in the short skirt and grinned. “Lovely. Especially without the pantaloons.”
I waved him off, but inside, I beamed. “Now that would be a scandal. It’s a lovely bloomer costume, dearest, but…”
“Peonies too much?”
“No, my sweet Washbear, they’re quite nice.” I collapsed onto the divan. “The calls for your return to the site haven’t stopped. Benjamin Stone came by on behalf of the committee to issue an ultimatum.”
“It’s bluster. Stop worrying. Martin knows what he’s doing, and I’m on top of every step.”
I waved Stone’s packet of papers. Wash put down the journal and came over to read them.
“I’m tired. I want to wear proper dresses and attend teas and have a bit of merriment again. I have no time with Johnny, and GK and Millie want us to visit them out west.” I pulled a needlepoint pillow over my face. “This is not the life I imagined.”
“I don’t recall this fondness for proper dresses and tea.” He handed the papers back, then lifted my legs so he could sit under them as I sprawled across the divan. “Merriment and adventure, yes. And this is all part of the adventure.”
“It’s your adventure. When will we have time for family and to work on causes that are important to me?”
Wash smiled mischievously, ran his hand up my leg under the short skirt. “Patience, dear one. A little trouble in getting something adds to the zest of it.” He moved onto his side, squeezing into the small space next to me. His lips feathered my ear as he whispered, “Sorry. Did you say something about a proper dress?”
* * *
The next day, I wore my new bloomer costume to the work site. Beautiful and more comfortable than a long dress and petticoats, my heart sang that Wash had made it for me. The stares and laughter of the workers rolled off me like gnats in a windstorm.
Making my way around the huge stacks of stone and heavy equipment see
king Martin, I came upon Farrington embroiled in an argument with Luciano, the mason on loan from PT. “Listen, you big guappo.” Farrington was nose to nose with the mason.
“You want a ten-ton brick in an eight-ton hole, you stupid mick,” Luciano retorted.
“That’s your goddamn job.”
Sensing an imminent physical altercation, I went to sort it out, pausing as a huge boom derrick lifted, then swung a block of granite past me and into position. The two workers cranking the derrick gears slowed at the sight of me. One gear driver put his fingers to his mouth and whistled to call attention to me. I chuckled when the other one gave him a swift elbow to the ribs.
Finally, my path was clear, and I reached the contentious duo. “Is there a problem, Mr. Farrington?”
“No, ma’am. Perhaps you can remind Luciano here—”
“Now I listen to a lady telling me what to do? Go change your baby’s pannolino.” Luciano spat on the ground, unbuckled his leather belt, letting the assortment of tools fall with a clang, then stormed off.
I shrugged, remembering the rather testy way Luciano and I had met. “He’s still vexed about the ladder.”
“How’s that?” But Farrington was off to supervise the stone movers before I could explain. The derrick workers were still watching me, distracted. They let the next stone swing too far, right into the walkway. Farrington raised his hands and yelled, “Stop!”
With much grinding and clanking, they reversed the gears, but it was too late. The huge stone’s momentum caused it to swing straight into Luciano’s path. It slammed into his body and sent him flying past me and across the site. His head cracked against a stone wall. All the workers, Farrington, and I ran to him. His mouth gaped open as if in surprise, his eyes staring at a place we couldn’t see. I turned away, but the image of his broken body remained. I went behind a stack of stones and retched.
I crouched there as the body was tended to, wiping my nose and eyes with a trembling hand.
“Sign here,” a brusque voice demanded, and papers were shoved at me.
The Engineer's Wife Page 15